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CASTLE 




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I 

STUDIO TALK 


T hree men sat smoking their after 
luncheon cigarettes in Andrew Gar- 
vie’s big studio in the Rue d'Assas, 
overlooking the green stretch of tree 
tops in the Luxembourg garden. 

While well furnished, as suited the abode of 
the rich Michigan lumberman's son and the suc- 
cessful artist, it was lacking in the frippery of 
bric-a-brac with which many younger men sur- 
round themselves. 

For Andrew Gar vie had been working nearly 
ten years in Paris, strenuous years of toil that 
had brought him recognition from his peers and 
from those to whom he looked as his masters. 

He had already had a mention at the Salon, 
and this year the betting was strong in the studios 
and cafes of the Quarter that his Theodora would 
win him a second medal at the coming Salon. 

Some people called him a neutral-tinted man, 
but they were those who failed to understand how 
much of the more intense side of his nature went 
into his painting, leaving a surface that seemed 
to belong to the mere society man such people 
thought him. 


9 


STUDIO TALK 


The other two smokers were David Frye, 
middle-aged and cynical, who made a settled in- 
come out of neat pictures of peasant family life, 
and Rupert Thorpe, the latent power in whose 
clear-cut, sensitive face was veiled by a moodiness 
which did not seem natural to it but which was 
somehow in keeping with the carelessness of his 
dress. 

On an easel stood an unfinished picture repre- 
senting the half length of a ruddy-haired woman 
in medieval attire, holding a jewelled cup, her 
tawny eyes staring out with a cruel, smiling per- 
sistence, a manifestation of magnificent evil. 

‘Tfs for that Bond-street show,” Garvie said, 
as though the picture had already been under 
discussion. 

‘‘She’ll make the beef-fed islanders sit up,” said 
Thorpe enthusiastically. “Jove, to have seen and 
known that moyen age empress of sin, the im- 
perial Lucrezia, might almost have been worth 
being poisoned by her. And how curiously char- 
acteristic you’ve got it of Virginie. There’s the 
sleeping tigress all right.” 

“Yes, Virginie is distinctly feline. But she’s 
the best of models,” Garvie agreed. “I could 
hardly do without her.” 

“Don’t let her know it then,” Frye put in 
oracularly. 

“Heard anything from the Salon yet, Frye ? 
You’re high up on the list,” Thorpe asked. The 
question seemed casual but the other two were 


10 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


conscious of the underlying nervousness. The 
carelessness of Fryers answer was genuine. 

‘‘No. Boutillier only got his acceptance yes- 
terday, so they won’t come to the Fs for a day or 
so. But it’s best not to worry about it. If one 
is hung with a number, it’s fate ; if one is kicked 
out, it’s equally so. In either case, we live 
through it.” 

“Yes, it’s wonderful the lot of killing we do 
take. Cats are nothing to it,” Thorpe scoffed 
bitterly. Then, with a determined effort to drop 
the too-important subject, “What a swell you 
were yesterday, Garvie, when I saw you driving 
with that black-haired, gorgeously attired girl. 
It was only the western backwoods air of the old 
gentleman that gave me courage to raise my hat. 
Who are they?” 

Garvie laughed. “Yes, the girl would be splen- 
did but for that same gorgeousness of attire. 
Perhaps her tastes may tone down. They are 
western, all right, but the Canadian forests have 
the credit of her superb vitality and his broad 
shoulders. The father is Gabriel Praed, a mining 
Croesus from British Columbia; and the joke is 
that he has regularly adopted me.” 

“To him that hath shall be given,” quoted 
Thorpe. “But why the honour?” 

“It seems he went, when a mere lad, from the 
Ontario backwoods to one of my father’s lumber- 
camps in Michigan. He got on well, married a 
French girl, who died young, leaving Mademoi- 


II 


STUDIO TALK 


selle that legacy of black hair and grey eyes. 
Her death made him restless, and, giving up his 
job as foreman, he went off to British Columbia 
where he got interested in mines. Everything 
prospered with him, but it is only within the last 
few years that he has blossomed into a million- 
aire. Now he has left his sons in charge and come 
abroad to see the world. The father is as simple 
socially as I suppose he is shrewd financially.'’ 

*^Not an uncommon combination,” put in Frye. 

‘‘And he seems to feel that for the sake of ‘old 
man Garvie' as he calls him, we're bound to be 
friends. It's rather a nuisance, though I like the 
old fellow, too.” 

“And the daughter?” 

“Well, she is a bit crude and emphatic, some- 
thing like her costumes. And yet there is an ap- 
pealing touch about her, an occasional wistful 
way, as though she understood they weren't quite 
up to the social mark, and were feeling astray.” 

“A dangerous pose,” Frye commented. 

“You old cynic! I've half a mind to introduce 
you to her. But, seriously, I feel bound to keep a 
friendly eye on them. There's a Mrs. Mallock 
who has fastened on to them whom I don’t much 
fancy. I’ve heard of her before as exploiting 
newcomers.” 

“A picker up of crumbs from rich men’s 
tables?” Frye asked. “Well, I suppose Croesus 
can spare the crumbs.” 

Garvie had an emphatic air of disagreeing with 


12 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


him as he said : *Tt^s all right if it’s only a few 
crumbs, but there’s been a lot of harm done by 
that kind of people. They settle themselves in 
some boarding-house where they lie in wait 
for the richest, most unsophisticated travellers, 
onto whom they fasten. I have heard of more 
than one wretched foreign marriage into which 
they have drawn American girls.” 

Thorpe laughed as he unfolded his lazy length 
and rose. “Well, it’s up to you to stop her little 
game,” he said. “I must get back to my studio 
now.” 

Garvie was watching him keenly. “Look here,” 
he said, “You know I’m going to take a run down 
to the old quarters in Brittany as soon as that 
thing is done,” nodding towards the Lucrezia. 
“Why don’t you come with me? You’re not 
looking very fit.” 

Something in the kindness of the words 
brought a tremor of suppressed feeling over 
Thorpe’s face, then, in an almost brusque tone, 
he said: “Thank you, I wish I could, but I’ve 
got to keep at work. It’s good in you though. 
Ta-ta.” 

“What’s the matter with that boy?” Frye asked, 
after they had smoked for a bit in silence. 

“Don’t know. Wish I did.” 

“He used to be the most sociable youngster 
in the Quarter, and now he’ll hardly speak to a 
soul.” 

“I suppose waiting for the Salon news has got 

13 


STUDIO TALK 


on his nerves. He was hardly used last year, you 
know,’’ Garvie hazarded. 

Frye shook his head. ‘Tt’s more than that. 
He must have managed to get into some real 
scrape to be so altered,” he said. 

‘‘What do you think it is?” 

“The old disturbing force — women. Perhaps 
some model has got hold of him.” 

Garvie laughed shortly. “Those eternal buga- 
boos of yours, you old woman hater. But I fancy 
he is under the rule of Miss Dorr — that dainty 
little Boston girl who designs fine clothes for 
Vanity Fair. You know her?” 

“I’ve met her sometimes. She works hard, 
doesn’t she?” 

“Yes, and I remember in my Harvard days go- 
ing to a dance at her home, when she was like a 
little queen to me. I got her to design my Theo- 
dora dress, but she is proud, and on the alert not 
to be helped.” 

“And Thorpe is a friend of hers ?” 

“He was, though his gloom may mean some 
break between them. Anyway, I shall keep a 
lookout for a chance to help him. He’s got too 
good stuff in him to be let go under, as you and 
I have seen so many do since we’ve been here in 
the Quarter.” 

“It’s Kismet, I suppose,” Frye said, rising. 
“Well, I must be off.” 

Opening the door, he revealed a girl standing 
outside as though about to knock. 


14 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


‘‘Jove! Here's Virginie looking more delight- 
fully medieval than ever. Which saint have you 
been posing for today, cherie?’' 

The girl stood facing him with a defiant air. 
Her thin figure was clad in dark green, and her 
pale face was framed in loose masses of red hair. 

“None, as it happens,’’ she answered without a 
smile. “The artists don’t use me for saints, you 
see. I suppose they think Lucrezia Borgia and 
her kind suit me better. She, it seems, was a lady 
without prejudices.” 

Garvie listened in silence, while Frye spoke: 
“You malign yourself, my dear, though I am 
glad to find you so well up in your historical 
studies. Well, I leave Garvie to smooth your ruf- 
fled brow. Au revoir/^ 

As he went, the girl came forward to stand be- 
fore the picture on the easel. “It is strong, that,” 
she murmured. “It would be a thousand pities 
not to finish it.” 

Garvie sprang up dismayed. 

“Not to finish it? I should rather think so. 
What do you mean by that?” he demanded. 

“It will take many more sittings?” she asked, 
watching him closely from under heavy white 
lids. 

“There is a good fortnight’s work in it. But 
can’t you say what you are up to ?” 

“You couldn’t finish in a week ?” she persisted. 

“Certainly not. Why should I scamp my work 
for anyone’s freaks?” Then trying persuasion, 

15 


STUDIO TALK 

he added, ‘‘Look here Virginie, tell me what all 
this means 

She only shrugged her shoulders evasively. 
“CiV//. What do I know? But if I should go 
away suddenly could you get someone else?'’ 

Garvie's voice now shewed that he was really 
angry. “Someone else? Do Lucrezias grow on 
every bush, pray?” 

Virginie laughed harshly. “Come then, do not 
enrage yourself. It will make your hand shake. 
I wanted to find out if you really need me as much 
as you say yoii do. See, the light is still good 
and I can pose till four, if you like.” 

“All right,” Garvie said, watching her dub- 
iously as she crossed the room and proceeded 
to rummage out her costume from a big chest. 

This unexplained rousing of the dormant feline 
nature was distinctly unsatisfactory to him. 


i6 


II 

HOTEL CLEVELAND 


T he Hotel Cleveland was a small, smart 
house in one of those bright Paris 
streets near the American embassy. 
Like so many other Paris buildings, it 
formed a diminishing social scale as it went up- 
wards. 

The first and second floors were devoted to 
travelling millionaires, or English or Russian 
aristocracy; above these was a medium strata of 
comfort, while the shabby attic rooms, refuge of 
discarded furniture, were the abode of newspaper 
correspondents, artists, or those shabby old 
women who pass sordid lives in foreign pensions. 

When Sylvia Dorr had made her first visit to 
Paris, a brightly interested American girl, she 
had taken her pleasant third-floor room as a mat- 
ter of course. Now, working for her daily bread, 
she was thankful to be able to pay for the dingy 
attic where she drew her clever designs for fash- 
ion papers. There had been winter days when, 
weakened by influenza, it had not seemed at all 
certain that she might not have to seek cheaper 
and even less attractive quarters. 

It had never occurred to her that she might 


17 


HOTEL CLEVELAND 


ask forbearance from Madame Comerie, the 
plump and urbane landlady. Instinctively she 
realized the inflexibility that underlay her unctu- 
ous smiles. It was the hard-featured middle-aged 
newspaper correspondent, Harriett Oakes, whose 
room was next to hervS, who had been her tower 
of strength in those dark days, days now past. 

On this bright March morning when Sylvia 
stood before her cracked looking-glass pinning on 
her hat, she had, for all the plainness of her 
dress, a certain air of distinction. True, her thin 
face had lost its first girlish freshness in the late 
years of toil, but what it had lost in freshness it 
had gained in character, revealing a serene depth 
of purpose that made its fragility that of tempered 
steel. Her figure was graceful, for all its thin- 
ness, and her masses of light yellow hair kept 
their first radiance. 

As she finished the arrangement of her veil and 
turned away, her eyes lingered on a spirited 
sketch in pastels that was pinned on the wall. 

It represented a twilit slope of meadow, 
crowned by a wood of birch trees in their first 
glory of young leafage, against which hovered 
vague shapes that seemed to be gazing wistfully 
down at the red flare of a bonfire half-hidden by 
black silhouetted groups. Across the bare paper 
at the top ran the legend in red chalk — ‘‘St. 
John’s Eve — Brittany. Rupert Thorpe.” 

Gazing at it, the sensitive corners of her mouth 
drooped, and she caught her breath in a little 

i8 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


sigh. ‘'And to think that after all our talking it 
over, I never saw it when it was finished. It’s 
two months since I’ve even seen him. I wonder 
why — I wonder why.” 

A knock at the door, and her friend Miss 
Oakes appeared in street dress. “Why, you are 
going out early ?” she said, surprised. 

“Yes, Madame Marcelle sent for me. It is un- 
usual, after we have settled the week’s orders.” 

“Some daughter of vanity wants a bit of finery 
designed in a hurry, I suppose. Well, they won’t 
ruffle the fair Marcelle’s equanimity. Have you 
ever seen her gracious calm disturbed?” 

“Never,” Sylvia said eagerly. “She really is 
very pleasant to work with, you know.” 

“Yes, she’s wonderfully angelic for a fashion- 
able dressmaker,” Miss Oakes acknowledged. “If 
she ever gets the best of her customers I’m sure 
it’s as a mere matter of business. For all that, she 
and her worthy mama, our dear landlady, are 
true Normans in their eye to the main chance.” 

“I suppose that they never would have got on 
if they hadn’t been,” Sylvia pleaded. 

“Comerie has raised the rent of my room,” her 
friend remarked casually. 

Her casualness did not prevent Sylvia from 
looking troubled. “How queer. My week’s bill 
is just the same,” she said thoughtfully. 

“Oh, I suppose she has orders from Mar- 
celle to keep you. I have an idea that she is un- 
der her daughter’s thumb.” 


19 


HOTEL CLEVELAND 


‘Tf you leave, I shall go too,’’ Sylvia insisted. 

‘‘Oh, I think I’ll hold out here until June, when 
I shall take a country holiday. Cheap village 
inns, and places I can write up. You’d better 
come too.” 

“I’d love to,” and Sylvia looked wistful. “But 
we must hurry or I’ll be late.” 

As they were going out they passed in the hall 
a well dressed woman, whose trim figure and 
elaborately arranged hair gave her a spurious air 
of youthfulness that failed on closer inspection. 

Her greeting was patronizing, though more 
directed to Sylvia than to her friend. 

“Mrs. Mallock radiates prosperity since her 
last American trip. She must have made a good 
thing of it,” Miss Oakes commented. 

“How?”' 

“Oh, well, she is said to have different little 
ways of bringing fish into the net. First of all, 
I think she takes out clothes for some of the 
dressmakers here — a good medium figure, you 
know — and she may get a diamond ring or some 
lace trimming through the customs as well. Then, 
coming back, the voyage gives her a chance to 
pick up some green travellers, whom she brings 
to the Cleveland and takes to Marcelle for 
dresses, and goes shopping with at odd times. It 
all helps the widow’s mite, you see. I rather 
fancy though, that she’s got some bigger game 
than usual on hand just now.” 

“Why?” 


20 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


‘T think she picked up some people on her last 
trip across whom she didn’t bring here. I over- 
heard Madame Comerie accusing her of bad faith, 
and she, who used to crawl on all fours to the 
‘patronne,’ said quiet skittishly; 'Chere, this is a 
wholesale not a retail affair. Before you excite 
yourself, just wait to hear what the others think 
about it’ ” 

‘‘Who were the others ?” Sylvia asked eagerly. 

A glance at her troubled face caused Miss 
Oakes to make a hasty answer. “How can I tell ? 
Anyway, it’s none of our business. We neither 
of us have leisure to reform the world. Here you 
are. So long.” 

Madame Marcelle’s rooms, on a Boulevard 
Haussman entresol, were considered by her cus- 
tomers to be something worth gushing over. 
Their decorations were in the light colouring and 
delicate outlines of the best Louis XV period. 
Panels of Aubusson tapestry were let into the 
walls, suggesting in their harmonious dimness 
dreams of cool green forests and wandering 
nymphs. 

Amongst these beautiful relics of the past, 
girls in rustling black silk were laying out as 
beautiful modern finery. Gowns that were reve- 
lations of luxury were thrown carelessly over 
chairs, silks and laces lay on tables, just enough 
unfolded to tempt further inspection. 

Amid these splendours Madame Marcelle 
moved serenely, herself a splendid type of mature 


21 


HOTEL CLEVELAND 


womanhood, with the opulent lines of her figure 
outlined by her handsome black dress, and her 
blonde hair crowning her fresh Norman face. 

“Ah, how good in you to come so promptly, 
my child,” she said in smiling greeting. “Come 
and let us talk business,” and she led the way to a 
recess containing two arm chairs. “I want you 
to design an historical dress for a pretty girl who 
has a fancy to look like a court lady. I believe 
she means to have her portrait painted in it, 
though that is not our affair.” 

“And what period does she want?” Sylvia 
asked. 

“Heavens ! She knows nothing about periods. 
Something with beautiful brocades and laces, she 
says, that is all. So you can do much as you like. 
But see here,” turning to a table beside her. “I 
happened to know of this uncut bit of old brocade 
at a dealer’s, and this unique set of paste buckles 
and buttons. They are costly things, but she does 
not seem to think of the price. You could de- 
sign a good costume for them, could you not?” 

Sylvia realized the beauty of the cream-col- 
oured, flower-strewn brocade, but, handling it, 
she doubted its age. However it was not for her 
to express such a thought. 

“It is a superb design,” she said. “What do 
you say to an Anne of Austria dress? Shall I 
do you a little sketch now ?” 

“Do, like an angel. Sit here at my desk, while 
I go out for a few minutes. I have forgotten the 


22 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


lace, a wonderful point e d* Alengon collar and 
cuffs, which I should like you to use.” 

‘Tt should just go with the dress,” Sylvia, who 
was quick to see that this was an order, agreed. 

.With Madame’s departure quiet fell upon the 
room, and Sylvia worked away, absorbed in her 
sketch. 

Presently she vaguely heard a stir of entrance, 
and a clear young voice asking in the most 
atrocious American French for Madame Mar- 
celle. 

Glancing up she saw a tall girl, with blue-black 
hair and bright colour, clad in a big fur-trimmed 
wrap. The shopwoman’s protests that Madame 
would return in one little moment, that she had 
not expected Madame so early, received little at- 
tention, and, catching Sylvia’s eye, the newcomer 
came towards her, saying in a breezy fashion, 
‘'Oh, what lovely brocade. Is that for my 
dress ?” 

The shopwoman seemed to think it was now 
Sylvia’s affair, and the latter spoke in English. 

"Madame Marcelle said it was for a fancy dress 
— an American young lady’s.” 

"That’s mine, all right,” came the vigorous 
interruption. "But are you English?” And a 
pair of frank grey eyes studied Sylvia, from un- 
der long black lashes. 

"I am American,” was the smiling answer. 
The older girl felt that she could have a great 
liking for this bright young creature. 


23 


HOTEL CLEVELAND 


‘*0h, are you? I’m a Canadian myself, but 
anyway, that’s next door to it. I always feel 
most at home with Americans over here,” and 
she gave a short sigh as at a recalled sense of 
strangeness. Then going on ; ‘‘But you don’t be- 
long here, do you? I have never seen you be- 
fore.” 

Sylvia flushed as she answered the question 
frankly. “I often draw designs for Madame 
Marcelle. She asked me to sketch something for 
you. Will you look at this, and tell me if you 
like it?” 

The stranger took the drawing, but after a 
passing glance at it turned her puzzled eyes back 
to Sylvia. 

“But do. you have to work at this kind of 
thing ? You are not like these other people here, I 
know. Oh, please don’t think me rude, but you 
see, I felt sure you are a lady.” 

Her heightened colour and the drooping curves 
of her lips gave her the air of a child caught in 
an indiscretion. Sylvia’s amused laugh reassured 
her as she answered, “Oh, you are not rude. Yes, 
when I was your age I could order a pretty dress 
without counting the cost too closely, if that’s 
what you mean. I had a good time, and now I’m 
glad to have such pleasant work to do. Come, 
will you tell me what you think of my design? 
Now that I have seen you I know how splendid 
you would look in it.” 

The other girl scanned the sketch with admir- 
24 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


ing interest. It showed the picturesque stateli- 
ness that Vandyke gave to his portraits of the 
ladies of Charles the First's court. 

^‘Myl How clever you must be to draw like 
that!" was the delighted exclamation. “Yes, of 
course it’s lovely. And do you think I’ll look 
what novelists call ‘queenly’ in that?’’ the girl 
asked wistfully. 

The quaintness of this appeal from the mag- 
nificent young woman struck Sylvia’s fancy, and 
her answer was cordial. “Of course you will. 
Nothing could suit your style better." 

At this the girl beamed, saying gratefully, 
“How nice you are 1 But look here, you’ll tell me 
your name, won’t you? Mine is Julia Praed, and 
father and I live at 62, Avenue Friedland." 

“I am Sylvia Dorr, once of Boston, now of the 
Hotel Cleveland.” 

“Why that’s where Mrs. Mallock lives. Do 
you know her ?" was the surprised query. 

Some fancy brought to Sylvia’s mind the over- 
heard words, ''Chere, this is a wholesale not a re- 
tail affair." 

“Yes, I know her slightly,” she answered. 

“She crossed with us, and father has found 
her very useful in helping us to find our flat, and 
all that," said Miss Praed with a half-questioning 
glance. 

“She crossed with us." That settled the ques- 
tion. This girl and her father were Mrs. Mal- 
lock’s treasure-trove. 


25 


HOTEL CLEVELAND 


With a soft little swish of drapery, Madame 
Marcelle appeared, and Sylvia fancied she was 
not overpleased at sight of the two girls in fa- 
miliar converse. Her apologies in prettily for- 
eign English were interrupted by Julia. 

“Oh, it didn’t matter one bit. Miss Dorr and 
I have been having a real good talk. But say, 
Madame Marcelle, this dress she has drawn is too 
lovely for anything. You’ll go right on with it, 
won’t you?” 

The dressmaker protested that she must have 
a more finished sketch, which sketch Sylvia 
promised for the next day. 

“Then I will meet you here on Friday, about 
the same time,” Miss Praed said to Sylvia, but 
Madame had various soft-spoken reasons why the 
designs should be sent to Avenue Friedland. 

Sylvia silently yielded to a cynical sense of 
amusement. She would show her employer that 
she had no wish to tamper with the captive of her 
bow and spear. 

But the heiress stuck to her point, that Sylvia 
must herself explain the costume to her, and 
Madame Marcelle yielded, with a honied smile. 

“An attack of influenza would just suit my dear 
employer,” Sylvia said to herself as she walked 
home, with a certain dreariness at heart. She 
loved to believe in people, and she had felt very 
grateful for Madame’s kindness to her. 


26 


Ill 

THE CANADIANS 

T hat evening Garvie dined with the 
Praeds, in the showy rooms where they 
seemed to have camped down in much 
the fashion they would have in the hotel 
of a western mining town. 

Mrs. Mallock formed a fourth in the little 
group, and her stream of babbled flattery, turned 
now on one now on the other, veiled the young 
hostess’ little fits of brusque shyness that alter- 
nated with her impulsive candour. 

It really did Mrs. Mallock credit, Garvie re- 
flected, how well she veiled her annoyance when 
she found him on the premises. 

Happy in entertaining ‘‘old man Garvie’s” son 
and the lady whom he looked upon as his social 
finger-post in Paris, Mr. Praed beamed upon the 
table from under his beetling grey brows, while 
he asked Garvie questions about his profession. 
“That show now, that’s to have your picture in, 
when’s it going to be open?” he asked. 

“The Salon? Oh, in six weeks or so,” Garvie 
answered. 

“Fm so impatient to see your Theodora,” Mrs. 
Mallock put in. “She is that snaky, wicked 


27 


THE CANADIANS 


Italian queen whom we used to go to see Sarah 
Bernhardt play, isn’t she? Do you remember 
when she takes the dagger from her hair to stab 
the soldier ? The little cry she gave always made 
me quite faint. Mrs. Van Kempt was good 
enough to offer to take me to your studio the 
Sunday afternoon you let society have a peep at 
the picture, Mr. Garvie. She said you wouldn’t 
mind any friend of hers coming — ^but my unfor- 
tunate neuralgia. Mr. Garvie’s reception was a 
fashionable event, I assure you, Mr. Praed. We 
Americans were quite proud. I remember that 
evening at Mrs. Courtland’s the gossips were 
speculating about the red-haired model you are so 
constant to — in your pictures, I mean. They said 
she was your Fredegonde last year.” 

‘^She was, and is likely to be something else 
next year,” was the uncompromising answer. 

Julia, marking Garvie’s annoyance, asked sim- 
ply, ‘‘Do you always have a model, Mr. Garvie ?” 

“Generally, unless I am working from a study.” 

“It makes it easier?” 

“Much easier.” 

Here Mrs. Mallock broke in with a giggle, 
meant to be arch: “And more interesting too? 
Really, dear, I wouldn’t ask so many questions 
about models.” 

Julia flushed, but held her ground. “Perhaps 
I’m stupid, but I’ve pever known any artists be- 
fore.” 

Garvie looked kindly at the girl’s appealing face, 
28 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


saying, ‘‘Ask me any questions you like, Miss 
Praed, and I’ll answer as well as I can. I’m 
sorry that Mrs. Mallock should consider my con- 
science so tender,” he added stiffly. 

That lady gave ground at once before the at- 
tack, protesting in flustered tones, and showing 
signs of embarrassed pique : 

“Oh, I assure you I really meant nothing more 
than a little joke on general principles.” 

She looked none the better pleased when Gar- 
vie, turning to Mr. Praed, asked : 

“And how is the search for old furniture get- 
ting on ?” 

Here Mr. Praed looked up from his apple-pie, 
glorified by French genius. A new light came 
into his keen grey eyes as he answered : 

“Fair and softly, sir. An old business man 
likes to go slowly. I’ve found a most intelligent 
man, or rather Mrs. Mallock has helped me to 
find him; a Mr. Britski that keeps that big shop 
for pictures and old stuff in the Avenue de 
rOpera. Ever heard of him ?” 

A quick glance at Mrs. Mallock shewed her 
innocently absorbed in her plate of forced straw- 
berries, and trying to appear oblivious to the turn 
the talk was taking. 

“Britski? Oh, yes, every artist in Paris knows 
him. A very intelligent man, as you say. What 
he doesn’t know about pictures and bric-a-brac 
isn’t worth knowing.” Gar vie agreed. 

“Oh, that’s satisfactory. I always like to get 


29 


THE CANADIANS 


hold of the best man in the trade, and I saw he: 
knew what he was talking about. Not to say 
that at first he understood just what I was driv- 
ing at — thought it the ordinary small affair of 
a few pictures and bits of old furniture picked 
up round his shop, or galleries as he calls them. 
How could I tell that stuff was genuine or that he 
wasn’t taken in himself by it. I shews him a 
photograph — the same as I shewed you, sir — of 
that Gothic edifice as the architect’s a putting Up 
for me in Montreal, and ‘find me,’ says I to him, 
‘a real old castle with real old fittings, furniture 
and drawing room ornaments and all, round just 
as the real old family had them arranged. Then, 
I’ll buy the whole lot out and out, and take them 
home and shew that architect that Gabriel Praed 
does know how to furnish his house for himself. 
Eh, Miss Julia?” 

This was his name for his daughter when in a 
high good humour. 

That young woman retorted doubtfully. “Well, 
I hope when you get the things, they’ll be pretty 
and clean. There are such lovely new things in 
the shops here, father.” 

The old man chuckled, saying : “Well, you do 
the house at the mines your way, and I’ll do the 
town one mine, antique fashion, and so we’ll both 
be suited. If it weren’t for that architect’s Gothic 
plan I can’t say as I mightn’t have liked modern 
things myself. But if you’ve once chosen to be 


30 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Gothic, well then you must be it. Eh, Mr. Gar- 
vie 

‘‘Certainly. It’s best to be consistent. But I 
Suppose Monsieur Britski told you that such a 
chance doesn’t turn up every day ?” 

Mrs. Mallock’s eyes met Garvie’s in a momen- 
tarily keen glance before they returned to the 
strawberries. 

Settling himself comfortably back in his chair, 
Mr. Praed began: 

“Well, he did say as how that might be the 
way in general. Said his best things often come 
from ignorant country auctioneers, who have 
picked them up cheap. Still, he seems to have 
heard talk of a family away down in the most 
outlandish parts of the country, who lost most 
of their stocks and bonds in that Panama canal 
business. Until then they were as rich as they 
had been in the days when a gentleman’s dress 
suit was made of tin — I’m glad that fashion has 
gone out, anyway — and those dress suits and 
other such fancy articles, they’ve always kept 
round, the same as people hang up Japanese fans 
nowadays. Britski says that they’ve been selling 
the things for the last year or two in small lots, 
enough to keep them going. Now he has heard 
that the father is dead and the daughter, who’s the 
only one left, has to let it all go. He’s making 
inquiries about it for me.” 

Julia had been listening as though this were 
news to her. 


31 


THE CANADIANS 


‘‘But father, whatever are you going to So with 
a lot of tin armour, unless youTe going to found 
a museum in Vancouver?” 

“No, my dear, I’m not,” was the cheerful an- 
swer. “That’s just a figure of speech, though it’s 
iron and not tin. .What it amounts to is, that if 
this story’s correct, there’s the whole furnishing 
and drawing room ornaments of a first class, mid- 
dle-age dwelling-house going cheap, and G. P. is 
the man what’s going to get it.” 

So this was the scheme that Mrs. Mallock and 
Britski were working. Well, at any rate it was 
better than trying to entangle the girl into an 
undesirable marriage, Garvie said to himself. 
Still, he would shew the woman that he was 
keeping an eye on her. 

“Then you mean to take the stuff on chance, 
from a catalogue ?” he asked casually. 

“Now, Mr. Garvie, do you suppose that a man 
as your father taught business ways to, is the one 
to make bargains blindfold?” came the pathetic 
remonstrance. “And then, ain’t it the point of 
the whole thing to see how that furniture looks 
in its own natural place, so as to give it the same 
aspect when I get it landed out in Canada. Lord, 
there’ll be a nice duty to pay first, and not even 
the preferential tariff to help ! No, sir, when Mr. 
Britski is able to tell me that I can have the re- 
fusal of the things, off I go to have a look at 
them, no matter how queer and outlandish a kind 
of place it is.” 


32 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Mr. Praed spoke as though announcing a jour- 
ney to the North Pole, and Julia seemed to share 
his feelings as she asked : “But father, how ever 
would you get along in those country places with- 
out understanding a word of French?’’ 

“Well, my dear. I’ve been on my own hook 
among the Dagoes in Mexico, and camped with 
the northern Indians at home, and I guess it 
will take more than a Frenchman to put Gabriel 
Praed off the tracks. What do you say, Mr. 
Garvie ?” 

“I daresay you will find it simple enough,” the 
latter agreed, then turning to Julia, asked : “And 
how will you amuse yourself while your father 
is in the wilds. Miss Praed?” 

“What does a woman want better than shop- 
ping in Paris?” put in Mrs. Mallock. “Espe- 
cially when they have at hand such a creator of 
beauty as Madame Marcelle?” 

“Oh, but I’ve found out the real creator be- 
hind Madame Marcelle ! Fancy, Mr. Garvie, she’s 
an American girl. Just perfectly sweet too, and 
a lady, though she has to draw these fashion-book 
things for her living. I found her at Madame 
Marcelle’s, and we had such a nice long talk be- 
fore Madame came in and stopped it. Her name 
is Sylvia Dorr. Isn’t it a pretty one?” Julia said, 
her soft grey eyes turned eagerly towards Gar- 
vie, the clear tinting of her face all aglow with 
girlish interest. 

“It certainly suits her daintiness very well,” he 
33 


THE CANADIANS 


said quietly. ‘1 know Miss Dorr — knew her 
years ago in my Harvard days when she had a 
pleasant home in Boston. Of late, she has once 
or twice designed an historical costume for my 
models. Her knowledge of detail in such mat- 
ters is marvellous. She has given years of study 
to it, and would long ago have brought out a 
book on the subject but for the loss of the family 
means, which forced her into more money mak- 
ing work.” 

What was there in his words to make Julia 
fancy them a well-bred rebuke to the over-eager- 
ness of her vulgar monied patronage of one of 
his own class; that he was emphasizing her own 
ignorance in comparison to the other girl’s knowl- 
edge. To- his amazement Garvie saw that she 
flushed and paled, and even fancied that he caught 
the gleam of tears in her eyes, though they were 
winked away as she said in more subdued tones : 

‘'She was as sweet as she could be about draw- 
ing an old times dress for me that I fancied I’d 
like, and I’m to see her about it at Madame Mar- 
celle’s tomorrow morning. What do you think, 
father, of my having my picture painted in a 
fancy dress to seem more like hanging up in that 
Gothic house of yours?” 

Her father banged his hand down on the table 
emphatically enough to make Mrs. Mallock jump. 

“That’s a real smart idea of yours. Miss Julia. 
Now if only you could persuade Mr. Garvie to 
do us the honour and pleasure of painting it — ” 

34 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


he paused dubiously, and Julia with flaming face 
sat staring down at her plate. 

One glance revealed her distress to Garvie and 
caused him to break the pause with ready good- 
will. 

‘‘There is nothing I should like better, Mr. 
Praed, I assure you. If you saw some of the 
parchment coloured, or worse, painted old women, 
who want one to do their portraits, you would 
understand what a welcome change your daughter 
would be, as a sitter. But I am hurrying to finish 
my winter’s work so that I can get away to the 
country for a few weeks’ fishing. If you like to 
trust it to me, though, I know a clever young fel- 
low, named Thorpe, who is I feel sure, equal to 
doing justice to his subject. I can look him up 
and arrange about it tomorrow. Will that suit, 
Miss Praed?” 

“Oh, yes, thank you, if it’s not too much 
trouble,” Julia said with nervous politeness, and 
her father, though he looked disappointed, agreed. 

“My dear Julia, how you and your good father 
can put up with that man’s supercilious patronage 
in the way you do, I cannot understand,” Mrs. 
Mallock said afterwards, while the men were 
smoking. 

“Oh, I think he means to be kind to us, only I 
suppose we do seem stupid sometimes,” the girl 
answered wearily, seeming uninterested in the 
subsequent flatteries lavished upon her by that 
lady. 


35 


THE CANADIANS 


That night there were a few tears dropped on 
her pillow as she settled the black masses of her 
hair into it, saying disconsolately to herself, 
“How different it would be if I had a sister or 
any woman folk of my own. Father’s just as 
good as ever he can be, but — somehow I seem 
lonely.” 

It was a new mood for the girl who had hither- 
to been looking on life as a fairy tale unrolled for 
her benefit. 


36 


IV 

MAKING FRIENDS 

S YLVIA’S thought of influenza must have 
been unlucky, for on the morning of her 
appointment with Miss Praed she awoke 
with a feverish cold. The dismayed 
dread of illness, that is such a torment to a wage- 
earner, kept her from running any risks; and, 
sending a note to Madame Marcelle, she settled 
down for an indoors day. 

The March wind whistled at every crack of the 
ill-fitting windows, and with a fur cape over her 
shoulders and her table drawn up close to the 
stove, she still shivered. It was no use. She 
was too stupid to go on with her day’s work, and 
so she sought for comfort in spreading out on the 
table the contents of a portfolio which held the 
illustrations for her long-planned book on the his- 
tory of costume. Resolutely as she had put aside 
her ideal for more practical work, she had found 
as soon as she was well started, that she could 
every now and then do some illustrated magazine 
article that might be used to complete the book. 
It was not often that she allowed herself the in- 
dulgence of looking over this portfolio ; but now, 
depressed and ill, she turned to it as she might 
have turned to a friend’s face, or to the cheer of 


37 


MAKING FRIENDS 


firelight. The spell worked, and she forgot 
draughts and headaches, as she added an occa- 
sional note or outline. 

‘Tt is good work,’’ she murmured, ‘‘and some 
day, perhaps — ” 

At a knock at the door she looked up absently, 
expecting to see the porter with fuel. Instead, 
there was the radiant vision of Julia Praed, clad 
in deep shades of purple cloth, soft grey fur 
around her face, her hair crowned with a won- 
derful arrangement of deep-tinted pansies. 

“Miss Praed,” she said rising, “Oh, I hope 
there is nothing wrong with the design of the 
dress ?” 

“Oh, that’s all right. Don’t bother about the 
dress. They said you were ill, and I came to see 
you. And look here, I’ve brought you these,” 
and she held out a great sheaf of long stalked 
tulips that seemed to have absorbed the sunshine 
in their golden globes. 

The wistful look that so often greets flowers in 
cities came into Sylvia’s eyes. “Oh, how nice in 
you,” she breathed fervently. Then, “I’m afraid 
the room is chilly. Nothing keeps the draughts 
out today,” and she shivered, drawing her wrap 
closer. 

“And you’ve got a cold? My, your hand’s 
burning,” Julia said taking it in hers. “Here, let 
me shut the door, and you come back close to the 
fire. Can’t I fix up that stove ?” 

Sylvia checked her as she knelt to investigate it. 

38 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


*‘0h don’t, you’ll only spoil your things. It’s a 
spiteful little wretch, and smokes if one puts 
•more than one briquette in. Somehow, every- 
thing seemed wrong today — except your visit, 
that breaks the bad luck,” she added with a smile. 

“Does it? I’m so glad I came,” Julia beamed 
from her seat in the rickety arm chair. 

“I’ve been to Marcelle’s this morning,” she 
went on. Then, “Look here, is she really nice to 
you ?” 

Sylvia glanced up startled, “Oh, yes, she has 
always been good to me. Indeed, but for her, I 
could never have got on as I have; but why do 
you ask ?” 

“Oh, well, I never trust these smiling French 
people much, and I wanted to know. If she’s 
good to you I don’t mind how many little tricks 
she has — if she weren’t, it would be different.” 

Sylvia, with remembrance of Harriett Oakes’s 
talk of Mrs. Mallock and her associates, felt un- 
easy at being made a guarantee for the dress- 
maker, whom she guessed was making large 
profits out of Miss Praed. However, she could 
say nothing. 

Her visitor created a diversion by saying, “Oh, 
what lovely pictures those are! May I look at 
them ?” 

She leant forward to the table, where lay three 
or four water-colour drawings from the port- 
folio. 

They might well have attracted more experi- 


39 


MAKING FRIENDS 


enced eyes, for their workmanship was charming, 
in the light style of Louis Leloir. 

They shewed Marie Antoinette and two or 
three of her court ladies, in those halycon days 
when that court was a fairy tale of life. Details 
of faces and costumes had been studied from old 
prints, and Sylvia had added backgrounds from 
the Trianons gardens. Julia’s eyes opened like 
those of a pleased child. 

‘‘How beautiful they are !” she breathed softly. 
“And you did them ? But are they real people, or 
did you just invent them?” 

“They are Marie Antoinette and her court 
ladies, when they were young and used to play at 
bein^ farmer’s wives at the Trianons. I sup- 
pose you’ve been out to Versailles?” 

“No, I never thought of it. Can I go there any 
time? ,What a goose I was not to think of it 
sooner. .Why, at school, I used to love to read 
about the queen, and used to cry at the part where 
she hadn’t the stuff to mend her clothes in prison. 
And these other ladies are real people too, are 
they ?” 

“Yes, there is the Princesse de Lamballe, and 
the Contesse de Polignac, and the Princesse Eliza- 
beth. I copied them from old prints in the Bib- 
liotheque Nationale.” 

“But,” Julia flushed and hesitated before she 
brought out — “don’t think me rude or stupid, 
please — but won’t you sell these, and get some 
money to be more comfortable?” 


40 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Sylvia hastened to reassure her. ^‘A very wise 
question, but, you see, I make money more surely 
and easily with my fashion sketches. That is 
why I have not finished the book these belong to. 
Don’t look so astonished,” she said, laughing. 
“Yes, I really was writing a book all about the 
little scraps of the history of dress I had picked 
up, when” — a sudden shadow of past trouble so- 
bered her face — “when everything went to pieces 
around me, and I found that I must turn to and 
work, as other women have had to do before.” 

“Oh, how dreadful !” came from Julia. 

“No, I don’t think now that it was dreadful,” 
the other persisted. “What right had I to suppose 
that the world was always going on as a down 
cushion for me? And I was more lucky than 
most girls brought up as I was, for there was one 
thing that I could do — draw those fashions — and 
I did it,” she ended with a touch of pride. 

Julia’s face was aglow with admiring curiosity, 
as she asked, “Well, but wasn’t it very hard to 
come off here all by yourself to work among these 
French people?” 

Sylvia was not of the type that confides easily. 
It usually took a long probation to break down 
her delicate reserve. But now there was some- 
thing in the simple girlish friendliness that 
warmed her heart and she answered frankly; “It 
wasn’t easy, but nothing worth the doing ever is, 
I think. And then my heart was so set on my 
work. I’m an obstinate creature, and all my 
friends had made such a fuss that I was deter- 


41 


MAKING FRIENDS 


mined to shew them I could do it. Only, I was 
sorry to put my book aside. It was so nearly 
finished,” she added. 

‘^But why can't you finish it now,” came the 
eager question. 

“Well, it really is practically finished,” Sylvia 
admitted. “You see, every now and then I earn 
some money with magazine articles, little chatty 
sketches of historical great ladies, illustrated with 
drawings from old pictures. I found I could 
really use these as part of my book, at least bits 
of them, so that my work in the libraries and 
galleries helped it along. Yes, I think it really is 
finished now,” she added with a little sigh of 
achievement, “and perhaps some day I may be 
able to get it published.” 

“But why can't you do it now ?” 

The quiet, firm glance of the blue eyes met the 
impulsive questioning of the brown ones, and 
denied their plea. “Because it is not easy, all at 
once, to find a publisher who will undertake as 
expensive a work as this would be, with so many 
illustrations, and because I do not choose to let 
certain kind rich friends at home advance the 
money, as they have offered to do. And so it 
must just wait until some publisher thinks it worth 
the printing. May that day come soon ! And mean- 
while, these ladies must be content to remain 
tucked away in the portfolio,” and she bent over 
the loose sheets to arrange them. 

“It seems a shame,” Julia said regretfully. 


42 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


Then with apparent irrelevancy, ‘T do believe 
you're proud after all.” 

Somewhat nervous as to whether this impulsive 
young woman might not, even now, insist upon 
offering to pay for the publication, Sylvia has- 
tened to turn her off with a laugh. ‘‘Well, if so, 
let us hope it is the right kind of pride, which is 
not a bad thing in its way. And now tell me 
about the dress. Is it going all right ?” 

“Oh, yes,” was the somewhat listless answer. 
“Pm going to have my portrait painted in it, if I 
can get any one to do it.” 

At this Sylvia laughed out. “Get anyone to do 
it! It's plain to be seen, you don't know much 
of artists. Why, they will all be struggling for 
the chance.” 

Julia responded with a forlorn little laugh. 
“Mr. Garvie isn't struggling to, at any rate. 
Poor father didn't understand how grand he is, 
and asked him to paint me. But no, he just made 
a lot of excuses. He was going away as soon as 
he had finished some work, he said. He has 
promised to find someone else though, a Mr. 
Rupert Thorpe. Do you know him ?” 

A soft colour came into Sylvia's pale cheeks as 
she answered; “Oh yes, I have known him a 
long time. I do hope you will arrange it with 
him, for he is clever, and should do you a charm- 
ing portrait.” 

Where were Julia's thoughts that she did not 
mark the change worked by Thorpe's name ? Her 


43 


MAKING FRIENDS 


gaze was fixed on the stupid little stove, and she 
spoke somewhat absently. ‘‘That’s all right then. 
And if that dress doesn’t seem to suit for the pic- 
ture, you’ll design me another, won’t you ?” 

Sylvia laughed. “You extravagant creature! 
Why, that dress will cost a fortune by itself. 
Anyway, I mustn’t take any orders from you save 
through Madame Marcelle. It wouldn’t be fair 
to her.” 

“Oh well, it’s all the same,” Julia answered, in 
blissful unconsciousness of the difference between 
the sum paid to Sylvia and that charged in her 
own bill for the design. 

Just then there came a light, sharp knock at the 
door, and it opened to disclose Mrs. Mallock, very 
smart in visiting attire, with the flush of rapid 
movement shewing through the powder-coating 
on her cheeks. 

“Oh here you are, my naughty little truant!” 
she began, in her high-pitched voice, vibrant with 
the false note of affectation. “I assure you, I 
was quite flustered when Constantine told me 
that you had come all the way up here to wait for 
me. 

She had taken no notice whatever of the owner 
of the room, and Sylvia, without rising from her 
fireside seat, looked on with a tremour of amuse- 
ment around her mouth, thinking how unlike a 
“naughty little truant” was the big, handsome 
girl, in her sumptuous purples, who lounged back 
so negligently in the decrepit arm chair. 


44 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Julia greeted the newcomer with the noncha- 
lance which even the least self-assertive learn to 
bestow upon those who flatter them. 

‘‘Constantine was mistaken,” she said brusquely 
“I came up here to see Miss Dorr.” 

Mrs. Mallock took the check well. 

“Oh, I see. Something about the dress Ma- 
dame Marcelle is making you. Well, my dear, if 
youVe finished your business here, I’m quite ready 
for a drive in the Bois, or — let me see — it is dear 
Madame de Touraine’s day, and I promised your 
father to take you to see her, you know. You 
will find it such an advantage to meet some of the 
old aristocracy, and there are so few Americans 
who are able to introduce you among them. 
Shall we be off, then?” 

“Oh I guess I won’t bother about the French 
aristocracy just yet awhile, thank you, Mrs. Mal- 
lock. I think I’ll stay on a bit with Miss Dorr, 
if she’ll have me. And as she’s got a cold, and 
there’s a kind of northwest blizzard coming up the 
stairs — ” She paused and looked suggestively at 
the door that Mrs. Mallock was holding open. 

There was a vicious spark of fire in that lady’s 
light eyes, but she laughed with apparent zest, 
saying, “You dear, droll creature, how shall I 
ever break you in to society ! Well, perhaps when 
Miss Dorr wants to get back to her work, you’ll 
come down to my little snuggery, and have a cup 
of afternoon tea. I don’t suppose you indulge in 
tea, Miss Dorr.” 


45 


MAKING FRIENDS 


Whether this were a semi-invitation, or a hint 
that Julia would get no tea in her present quarters, 
Sylvia did not understand, but she took the latter 
view in her answer. ‘‘No, but I am going to 
make myself a cup of chocolate presently, and, if 
Miss Praed cares to stay, she shall have our com- 
pany cup. I expect Miss Oakes in soon,^’ she went 
on to Julia, “and I promised her some buttered 
toast.” 

“Oh, do let me make it. Let me do every- 
thing,” the latter cried joyfully. “I haven't had a 
chance to do a thing for myself for ages, and 
you'd never guess how smart I was about the 
kitchen at home.” 

“All right. You shall play house as much as 
ever you like,” Sylvia agreed. 

Mrs. Mallock saw that the comradeship of 
youth vras too strong for her. “Pm afraid I can- 
not offer you the temptations of cooking, and so 
I'll be off,” she said acidly. *‘Au revoir, my dear. 
I hope your cold won't come to much. Miss 
Dorr.” And, with a protesting rustle, she was 
gone and the door was shut. 

“Break me in to society,” Julia commented, as 
she took a general view of her friend's prepara- 
tions. “I rather fancy it will be somebody else 
but me that gets broken in before we're done.” 


46 


V 

IN THE QUARTER 

I T was after the dejeuner hour on the Boule- 
vard St. Michel, and, as the March sun 
was bright, the seats around the little tin 
tables outside the cafes were full. 

Here were the men of the future, French, Eng- 
lish and American students, medical, literary and 
artistic. Youth and its effervescence was in the 
air, and that one square acre of ground covered 
enough theories and ideas to furnish half a new 
continent. 

At the Taverne du Pantheon, opposite the Lux- 
embourg gate, the groups were the most varied. 
Actresses, models, and such, supplied bits of bril- 
liant plumage amongst the sombreness of mascu- 
line garb. Flower-girls with baskets of violets 
were making their way between the seats. Two 
well-known artists were arguing so vigourously 
over a much-discussed picture of the year that a 
little group of listeners had formed around them. 
At the end of the terrace,- just beyond a bright- 
coloured cluster of young ladies of the Quarter, 
Rupert Thorpe sat alone. 

He had left half-finished his coffee and petit 


47 


IN THE QUARTER 


verre, he had even neglected to light a fresh 
cigarette. Among the crowd were many models 
and artists with whom he was habitually in the 
friendly intercourse of everyday life. 

With men and women alike he was a favourite. 
“He Z3Xiflaner most delightfully, ce petit Thorpe,*' 
the girls said, and “it's worth while to get Thorpe 
started on his art theories," the men acknowl- 
edged. But to-day he neither flan^d nor talked 
out his art views, only sat and stared past the 
crowd at the budding chestnut trees around the 
Palace opposite, with the pained isolation of the 
wounded animal in his eyes. Whatever his 
thoughts might be, they had him so in their grasp 
that he never noticed the familiar figure of An- 
drew Garvie as he threaded his way between the 
tables, with here and there a friendly greeting or 
bandied jest. It was only a touch on his shoulder 
that roused him, and then he started as though 
his nerves were not in good order. 

“Hullo, what's the matter? An evil con- 
science?" was Garvie's greeting, as he seized on 
a just vacated chair and seated himself. 

There was a strong contrast between the two 
men. Garvie, tall, a bit stiff of bearing, with 
pointed, light brown beard, his careful dress tell- 
ing of a planned afternoon on the other side of 
the river; Thorpe, of medium height and slight 
build, his clean-shaven face revealing the mobile, 
sensitive mouth, to which the moody lines did not 
seem natural, his careless dress shewing that he 

48 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


had come straight from his morning's studio 
work, and probably meant to return to it. 

Without moving after his first start, he an- 
swered Garvie's greeting. ‘‘An average one, I 
believe. Look around and guess if there is such 
a thing as a good conscience within a hundred 
yards of here. There is Celestine Rouet, who, six 
months ago, drove that poor devil of a wine-mer- 
chant into shooting himself. She looks quite 
pleased with herself. Then there is — ” 

“Shut up, you death's head," Garvie inter- 
rupted. “I don't wonder at your gloomy looks if 
such were your meditations." 

“No, I wasn't thinking about Celestine and her 
ilk. I was just meditating a murder or two on my 
own account, or a little scientific torturing. It 
must have been great sport to be an inquisitor, or 
one of your favorite Borgias." 

“The Borgias were much too well bred to tor- 
ture. They only poisoned." 

“Well, I suppose they got some entertaining 
primary convulsions out of their friends, any- 
way." 

Garvie, seeing that he was talking off a dark 
mood, humoured him, asking idly, “Who would 
be your victims?" 

“Oh, a varied selection of those who trip up 
the footsteps of genius." 

“Well, it must be a comfort to know yourself 
a genius. It's a point better men than you or I 
are doubtful on." 


49 


IN THE QUARTER 


‘T look like a genius, don't I ?" came the scorn- 
ful retort. ‘‘Now you — your very hat and gloves 
bespeak the man who is arrive, whose portrait a 
month or so hence will be in the home papers, as 
the successful artist who won a second, perhaps a 
first, medal." 

“Don't be childish, Thorpe. Genius is no ex- 
cuse for cowardice," Garvie said more sharply. 

“Again that touching word. And why cow- 
ardice, pray?" was the cool retort. 

“Any man is a coward who blames others in- 
stead of himself for his failures." 

“Sounds like the wisdom of La Bruyere, or 
Rochefoucauld. Have you been lecturing at a 
young ladies studio, perchance, that you have as- 
sumed that air of virtue?" 

Garvie had been lighting a cigarette, and now 
leaned forward, his elbows on the table to say 
earnestly, “Look here, Thorpe, I want to talk to 
you." 

“Well, it seems to me that you have already 
been indulging in that amusement." 

“I want to talk seriously, man, if you'll stop 
playing the fool. I first went to find you at your 
studio, and then have been round to half the cafes 
in the Quarter — " 

“What condescension," the other still scoffed, 
though he had turned and was now watching his 
friend closely, almost nervously. 

Not noticing these last words, Garvie went on. 
“I've been asked to paint a portrait — a good-look- 


50 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


ing girl, and money no object — but I don’t feel as 
though I could start in on any fresh work just 
now. I must vagabondize a bit first, and then 
I’m really set on some careful work at early 
spring foregrounds for a subject I have in view. 
So when I declined the tempting offer, I men- 
tioned you as the most desirable substitute.” 

For all the elaborate carelessness of the sugges- 
tion, it scattered the moody cloud on Thorpe’s 
face, bringing in its place the tremulousness of a 
hope that had all but died out from exhaustion. 

“Thanks, old fellow,” he said in a somewhat 
choky tone. “It was very good in you to think of 
me. I haven’t done a portrait for ages. It will 
be rather fun. What is the young woman’s 
name ?” 

“Miss Praed.” 

“Not the daughter of Gabriel Praed, the Can- 
adian millionaire?” Thorpe asked with a startled 
air. 

“The same. Ever heard of him ?” 

The other struck a match to light a fresh cigar- 
ette before he answered. “Don’t you remember 
telling Frye and me about them the other day? 
But does the daughter really want me to have the 
job? That kind of people usually like a big 
name.” 

“Oh, they take my word that you are a budding 
genius. I am to settle it now, so that I can tell 
her this evening when you will begin.” 

There was nothing in this to cause Thorpe to 


51 


IN THE QUARTER 

look as undecided and miserable as he did. A 
glance shewed his friend that he had grown very 
pale, before he broke out desperately ; ‘‘Look here 
what is the hurry about it? I can’t give a defi- 
nite answer until I’ve seen someone else with 
whom I have a bit of work half arranged. I 
really don’t know if I’m free to undertake this. 
Don’t think me a fool or an ungrateful brute — 
there’s a good fellow.” 

Garvie, feeling that firmness was the truest 
kindness, ignored the appeal, and answered, “You 
must be a fool if you refuse an offer like this.” 

He had guessed right, for the other flashed re- 
sponsive, “No hang it. I’ll accept, whatever hap- 
pens.” 

Garvie did not shew how puzzled he was be- 
ginning to feel. “Well, Miss Praed would like 
you to go to see her and settle on the dress you 
prefer. Shall I say to-morrow at two o’clock,” 
he asked in a matter-of-fact fashion. 

Thorpe was now all eager alertness. “The 
sooner the better. What’s her colouring?” 

“That creamy Irish skin, with the pink coming 
and going, grey eyes, and blue-black hair. She’s 
a splendidly vigourous bit of young womanhood.” 

“Not beefy, I hope,” Thorpe objected. 

“Heavens, no. There is a lot of individuality 
in her face, latent perhaps, but certainly there. A 
man might almost find too much of it in a year or 
two.” 

Thorpe laughed in the old whole-hearted fash- 
52 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


ion his friend remembered. “Lord, man, you 
don’t want an Amelia out of Vanity Fair, do 
you ?” 

“Though the type is out of date, it might still 
have its merits for domestic life. Reposeful, you 
know,” was the lazy rejoinder. 

“Reposeful ! That’s the very last thing it could 
ever have been. Those early Victorian ladies of 
Thackeray’s were forever clutching their off- 
spring to their bosoms and invoking Providence 
in floods of tears. Fancy the horror of a lively 
American child at taking part in such a tableau. 
But it’s the meekness that hits your fancy. I al- 
ways thought you had a touch of the Englishman 
in you.” 

Garvie was inwardly chuckling at his success 
in arousing Thorpe’s love for argument, when he 
saw his interest flag and the preoccupied shadow 
darken his face. “Look here,” he broke off ab- 
ruptly — “I want to ask you something. Do you 
think it would seem queer to Miss Praed if you 
were to ask her not to talk about this portrait — 
about my painting it, I mean? You might put it 
to her as a habit with artists.” 

There could be no mistake about his earnestness 
now. Garvie saw the fingers that held his cigar- 
ette twitching nervously. The unaccountability of 
all this began to irritate him, and he answered 
somewhat tersely, “I might, of course, and it is 
just possible that Miss Praed might take my word 
for it, though she is no fool, but you can hardly 


53 


IN THE QUARTER 

expect me to swallow such a whim without some 
good reason.” 

Thorpe was intently outlining a pattern in ashes 
on the tin table as he said in a low voice, ‘‘No, but 
sometimes a friend will make the best of a poor 
excuse, seeing one is in a tight place — ” 

He paused, and Gar vie noticed the voice of a 
girl at the next table, humming. 

Oh, que. la vie est gate — 

“Might’nt it be best to trust a friend ?” he sug- 
gested quietly. 

“I can^t. Heavens alive, my dear fellow, don’t 
you see that I would if I could ? You’d better give 
up the whole thing, and have nothing more to do 
with me.” As he ended, Thorpe sprang up, shov- 
ing back his chair, which grated harshly on the 
asphalt. There was enough agitation in his 
voice to cause a few curious glances. 

Garvie took it all impassively, saying, under his 
breath, in a compelling voice : “Sit down, and try 
to be sensible. See here, the best thing you can 
do is to go to a doctor. You look like a ghost, 
and you can’t keep still for two seconds. You 
may be getting a fever. There is a lot of typhoid 
about over here lately, Briggs was telling me.” 

Thorpe greeted this theory with a laugh. “No 
such happy solution to the problem, I am afraid. 
My dear fellow, I have the health of an ox.” 

“You don’t shew it then. Well, if you are not 
ill, will you have enough common-sense to prom- 
ise to go and see Miss Praed, 62 Avenue Fried- 


54 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 

land, tomorrow? Remember, if you promise I 
consider you bound to me” 

‘‘All right. I promise by all the gods. I will 

go- 


55 


VI 

SIGHT-SEEING 

D ON’T you think, father, that we ought 
to go and see the real old places in 
Paris, the places where all the dread- 
ful things happened to the Kings and 
Queens, and that sort of people ? Why, I’ve been 
reading about it here,” and Julia Praed thumped 
an open Baedecker on the edge of the table, ‘‘and 
you can see the prison cell where the Queen, 
Marie Antoinette, slept the night before they cut 
off her head, and at a church they shew you the 
bloodstained robes that an Archbishop of Paris 
wore when they shot him — ” 

“Hum, I can’t say as it sounds exactly cheer- 
ful,” Mr. Praed put in dubiously. “Still, Julie, 
I suppose, as you say, it’s our duty to improve our 
minds, and I don’t deny as we’ve been frivolling 
most of the time we’ve been over here. Yes, 
you’re right, and I’ll speak to Mrs. Mallock about 
getting someone as knows to shew us around.” 

At this proposition, Julia shook her pretty head 
so energetically that a great pin of amber tortoise 
shell flew out from her hair, letting loose the 
heavy black waves. 

“There now,” she said, putting up her hands 

56 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


to repair damages, ‘‘that’s because I wouldn’t let 
Jeanne take time to do it properly before break- 
fast. No, father, that’s just what I don’t want 
to do, to go asking Mrs. Mallock how I’m to learn 
about things. She thinks me enough of a fool 
as it is.” 

“Why, Julie !” came the troubled protest. 

“Oh, that’s all right. I don’t blame her for it. 
But, all the same. I’m not going to stay any more 
of a fool than I can help. Now, just you listen to 
what I want,” and she sent across the breakfast 
table a smile that would have made her father go 
to Kamskatka at her bidding. 

“I just want,” she went on, emphasizing her 
words with little nods, “for you and me to go off 
by ourselves — not with the carriage, but in one 
of those nice little yellow cabs with the fat drivers 
in shiny hats. It will make us feel more like real 
travellers, and I’ll put on a plain dress that nobody 
will notice me in.” 

“You couldn’t do that,” said her fond parent. 
“But how will we know where to go?” 

“Why, haven’t I been reading this book, and 
don’t it tell one everything? Now you leave it to 
me, and just see if I can’t manage.” 

Mr. Praed agreeing, they set forth early on 
foot, to take a cab around the corner, and, in a 
fashion, elope for a few hours from their new 
state. 

The gloom of the Conciergerie cells depressed 
Mr. Praed’s spirits, but he was presently cheered 


57 


SIGHT-SEEING 


and excited by the discovery that Notre Dame 
was Gothic. “J^st like our new house, only I 
must write and tell the architect as I wouldn’t like 
quite so many queer figures crawling over it — 
might make a visitor as had been enjoying him- 
self think he had the jim-jams.” 

He immediately bought several books of views 
from a hawker on the steps, ‘To send home to 
John and George, and let them see what Gothic 
looks like.” 

The splendours of the Treasury and of Napo- 
leon’s coronation robes enabled him to support 
the sight of Monseigneur d’Affre’s bullet-pierced 
garments, and altogether their morning was a 
success. Especially so was it, when they ventured 
into a crowded Duval for dejeuner, and her father 
noted the admiring glances that followed Julia 
down the room, and listened with pride to her bold 
attempts to order their meal in French. 

“There, I’ve done it, you see,” she said, flushed 
and laughing, as the waiter rushed off with his 
order. 

True, the “a/oyaw” she had ordered, turned out 
to be “just little bits of fried beef,” instead of the 
larks she had expected, and her father shook his 
head decidedly when an uncooked, prickly-leaved 
artichoke was set before him. 

“Take it away, my man,” he said. “Whatever 
you may call it on the paper, it looks to me like 
first cousin to a raw thistle, and I’m not the kind 
as eats that'' 


58 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


With a sense of achievement, they drove back 
to the more familiar streets in one of the first open 
cabs of the season. 

At the Place de I’Opera, Mr. Praed announced 
his intention of going into Munroe’s for letters, 
and as Julia wanted to walk home, he paid the 
cab and they parted. 

Her theory as to the unobtrusiveness of her 
own appearance was soon dispelled by various 
glances of bold approval, while one lounger, more 
enterprising than the rest, stalked her all the way 
up the Rue Auber. 

She knew that the man, a middle-aged dandy, 
was there close behind her, but she did not allow 
such a trifle to interfere with her purpose of sit- 
ting awhile in the Parc Monceau, any more than 
she had allowed the chance of meeting a stray 
bear to spoil her mountain rambles in her far-off 
western home among the Rockies. 

There, she had carried a smart little revolver; 
here, she had her purse, her ready tongue and wits 
for sufficient protection. 

Mrs. Mallock had tried to frighten her out of 
solitary street rambles, but she had answered, ‘T 
don’t see how a girl with any sense can be really 
frightened when she has only to hail a cab and 
drive home;” and on this principle she acted in 
case of necessity. 

Since the age of sixteen her life had been of 
the kind to develop courage and self-reliance. 
Before that, she had spent two irksome years of 

59 


SIGHT SEEING 


restraint in a convent school in Portland, Oregon, 
that fair city that lies among its gardens between 
the sea and the mountains. Her father had then 
yielded to her entreaties and taken her home to 
the house on the hillside above the village that 
clustered around his mines, on the banks of the 
swift Fraser river. 

Here, while her father and brothers were away 
all day, her life was a solitary one. Chinese ser- 
vants freed her from the household drudgery of 
the women settlers on the plains, so that she 
could roam the mountain paths at will on her 
stout little pony, learning the lessons of fortitude, 
which nature gives to those who seek her in her 
high places. 

So now there was no girlish timidity to mar her 
enjoyment of the puppet show of outdoor Parisian 
life, as, finding an empty chair, she settled down 
to share the sunshine with the nurses and babies. 

The March afternoon was still bright, and all 
Paris seemed resolved to enjoy it. The women 
in the carriages that passed had that Parisian look 
of wearing a hat fresh from the milliners. The 
grassy slopes of the little park shone emerald 
green, and the flowers of the earliest bulbs 
flaunted bravely in the borders. The gaily-col- 
oured ribbons and streaming cloaks of the stal- 
wart nurses and the white dresses of the children 
who played around them, all added their share to 
the universal brightness. 

It was not to watch the panorama of foreign 

6o 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


life that Julia had come here, but in the need of 
thinking out some of the new ideas which had 
lately been seething in her brain, and of which 
her morning’s activity had been the outcome. 

.Was it possible for her to make herself a 
woman like Sylvia Dorr ? A woman who under- 
stood about all these wonderful things, which she 
was only just beginning to know were in the 
world ; a woman whom men liked to talk to, and 
praised for something more than looks or dress? 
She had been like a child in her delight in her new 
toys of pretty clothes and jewelry, when all at 
once these toys lost their value at the discovery 
of better treasures beyond, treasures on the at- 
tainment of which her heart was set. Now she 
wanted to he, as well as to have and enjoy. 

No wonder Mrs. Mallock despised her as a 
dupe, and Mr Garvie treated her like an ignorant 
child. She was ignorant, but she would shew 
them what she could do when she tried, and at 
this resolve she drove the ivory point of her sun- 
shade into the ground so sharply that a little child 
busy among its heaps of gravel ran to its nurse in 
fear. 

This made Julia laugh, and cease from tragedy. 
After all, she had always accomplished what she 
wanted, and there was no reason she should not 
do so now. 

She was far from being totally uneducated, 
having, during her two years of school-life, learnt 
easily and quickly anything that had enough pic- 

61 


SIGHT SEEING 


turesqueness to take her fancy. But while quick- 
witted enough, she was too full of vitality to have 
the instinctive craving for books which goes with 
a less active nature. So wEen she had turned her 
back on cities, reading formed no part of her sol- 
itary hours. 

She was content to roam the hills in the day, to 
join in her father^s and brother’s talk around the 
fire in the evening. In such a life she learnt 
much of nature and of men, but the booklore that 
had never been an innate part of her being, slipped 
away like an outworn garment. 

The new riches had brought new activities. 
She had travelled with her father on business trips 
to Vancouver or Chicago, where she had become 
familiar with showy hotels and theatres, but 
where nothing among the people she had met had 
revealed to her her own deficiencies. She had 
gone with him into the wilds to inspect some of 
his increasing investments, once even as far north 
as Dawson City, winning praises from rough men 
for her courage and agility. Never, until they 
had started on this European trip, had she been 
as far east as Toronto, but the habit of travelling 
once acquired, one country is much like another, 
and finding herself in the same atmosphere of 
admiration east as west she had been until lately 
on very good terms with herself and the world. 
What it was that had caused this new self-discon- 
tent she might have found it hard to express. 
She only knew that she wanted to understand 

62 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


the world around her as she saw that other 
women understood it; wanted to be able to talk 
and think as it was natural for Sylvia Dorr to 
talk and think. 

With her usual directness of action, she had 
seized upon a Baedecker guide-book as the first 
means of culture at hand, though now, pondering 
over her energetic morning, she could not but feel 
that she and her father had been groping some- 
what in the dark, ‘‘No matter. I’ll get at it 
sooner or later, if I have to take poor father right 
through the book,” and she laughed in rather a 
cheerless fashion. 

She was just planning the purchase of more 
books on French history, when the knowledge 
that a man had stopped in front of her caused her 
to raise her head with an angry flush. The anger 
changed to a little laugh of pleasure as she recog- 
nized Andrew Garvie. 

‘‘Oh, it’s you ?” she greeted him. “How queer 
it seems to see somebody one knows among all 
these people.” 

“The world is small,” he said as he held her 
hand. “I was on my way to call on you, and so 
am doubly in luck, for I should have missed you 
there. And now, may I sit down and talk ? See, 
there are two seats over in that side path, a little 
removed from the nurses and babies. I don’t 
suppose you are enamoured of their society. No? 
That’s right.” 

Having reached their bourne, Garvie began: 

63 


SIGHT-SEEING 


‘‘How is it you are all alone? Has the amiable 
hanger-on gone on strike, or is she busy with 
your father?” 

He had seen enough in Julia’s manner the last 
night he dined with her, to know that he could 
speak freely. 

She laughed as she said: “Mrs. Mallock? Oh 
no, she isn’t with father. He and I just went off 
by ourselves this morning to poke round Notre 
Dame, and see the old things. I’ve heard her 
sniff at travellers going about like that, so I knew 
it wouldn’t be grand enough for her. She would 
only have got neuralgia if I had asked her.” 

“It strikes me you’re getting a little tired of 
the lady,” Garvie said. He was leaning an arm 
on the back of his chair, watching appreciatively 
a ray of sunshine against the curve of Julia’s neck 
and the loose bits of black hair. Never had he 
seen her looking better than to-day, in the costly 
simplicity of her grey cloth walking-dress and vio- 
let-wreathed hat. 

“Well, I think she wants to boss us too much,” 
Julia acknowedged. “At first, she went about it 
as gingerly as a cat walking on hot ashes, but 
now that she is less careful, she sometimes shews 
what a fool she thinks me. Once or twice, she 
got quite scratchy when I wouldn’t do just what 
she wanted.” 

The complaint was made with whimsical light- 
ness, but Garvie answered it more seriously. “I 
think your best plan is to get scratchy too.” 

64 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


‘T do, but father thinks her an oracle, and I 
don’t want to drive her away and have him miss 
her. You see, she takes good care never to shew 
her claws when he is around.” With a pretty 
little air of appeal, she turned to him; ‘Wou 
know Paris, Mr. Garvie. Now, do you think Mrs. 
Mallock is a nice friend for me to have?” 

Rather pleased at the chance, he answered 
frankly, ‘‘No, I don’t. I should advise you to 
try to drop her, gradually and politely, so as to 
make as little of an enemy of her as possible.” 

“I think it will take a lot of trying — still, I dare 
say I’ll be equal to her,” was Julia’s cheerful com- 
ment. Then in a graver voice, “But you see, I 
do need a woman to talk to about things. Now, 
if I only had someone like Miss Dorr to go about 
with.” 

She paused, and Garvie, unheeding the little 
flush on her face, and forgetting his worldly 
maxims as to never praising one woman too 
warmly to another, answered with ready enthu- 
siasm, “Yes, you couldn’t have a better friend 
than Miss Dorr. She could tell you all the little 
things that women want to know — ” 

The broad-brimmed hat was shading Julia’s 
face as she put in quickly, “Such as how not to 
dress vulgarly and loudly, and shew how new it 
all is to one ? What is it Mrs. Mallock said they 
called it here — not to smell of money?” 

Her voice was low and hurried, and seemed 
to break on the last words with a hint of tears. 

65 


SIGHT SEEING 


Garvie tried in vain to read the storm signals 
hidden under the drooping hat-brim. Honestly 
shocked at the construction she had put upon his 
words, he hastened to protest : “My dear girl, I 
never dreamed of implying that you needed any- 
thing of the kind. I merely agreed with you when 
you said that you wanted a girl friend to talk to. 
Surely, when you remember that your father and 
mine were old friends — ’’ 

Up went the hat-brim, and a pair of angry grey 
eyes flashed on him through tears. “Master and 
workman, you mean. Oh, I don't forget it, and 
neither do you. Do you suppose I haven't under- 
stood what a nuisance poor father and I have been 
to you?" 

The fresh young voice thrilled with pain and 
pride, and Garvie's pity for her impulsive nature 
kept down his rising impatience. All the same, 
his voice was sterner as he said, “If you will be 
so unreasonable I shall have to leave you, and I 
wanted to tell you about Mr. Thorpe, who is de- 
lighted at the chance of painting your portrait." 

Like a naughty child who refuses to be molli- 
fied, Julia murmured, “I'm glad to hear that there 
is somebody not too grand to do it, anyhow." 

Garvie, seeing that it was no use to mince mat- 
ters, spoke out frankly : “Miss Praed, just try to 
put yourself in my place for a moment. Fortune 
has been good to me, and I have all the work and 
all the money I need. Now I happen to know a 
young fellow who, while he paints as well as I 

66 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


do, has not much of either. Don’t you think it 
is a natural thing for me to try to give him a 
start that might be the making of him? If his 
picture does not satisfy you and your father, I 
promise to paint another myself, afterwards. 
Don’t disappoint me,” he pleaded. “Perhaps if 
I tell you that Thorpe used to be a great friend 
of Miss Dorr’s before things went so hard with 
him — ” 

He had no chance to say more, for Julia turned 
to him, her eyes softly deprecating. “Oh, of 
course you’re right and I’m ever so wrong. I 
don’t know what got into me to be so horrid to- 
day. I think it was just because I was worrying 
at being so stupid and ignorant compared to 
people like Miss Dorr. But I’m so glad now that 
you shewed me the chance to help him. Oh, I 
do hope being rich isn’t going to make me selfish 
and careless. I believe it must be having Mrs. 
Mallock about that makes me feel as though 
everyone must be mean and scheming. But I 
know that you just want to help father and me 
for old times’ sake, and really. I’ll do whatever 
you say.” 

A neat grey glove was held out to him, and 
Gar vie took it, laughing, but with a new sense of 
fnearness to the bright, changeable creature. 

“You mustn’t make an ogre of me,” he pro- 
tested. “Do what your own warm heart sug- 
gests, and you can’t go far wrong. Only, to make 
sure, if you are perplexed about people, ask me 

67 


SIGHT SEEING 


and let me help you. You’ll remember, won’t 
you, that it’s an alliance ?” 

As he leant forward, holding her hand in his, 
their appearance was sufficiently lover-like to 
bring a wistful smile of remembrance into the 
face of a white-haired lady who passed, leaning 
on a stick. 

“Oh yes, I shan’t be afraid to ask you anything, 
now,” was Julia’s ready answer. “Why is it that 
it is always such an unpleasant surprise to hear 
that another person has been afraid of us ?” 

“You were never afraid of me?” Garvie pro- 
tested. 

Julia’s eyes were mischievous as she answered, 
“Yes, I think I always was. You see, father 
kept talking about you, and how you would know 
everything, and be so particular — ” 

“I don’t wonder you hated me.” 

“Oh, I never hated you, exactly.” 

“Not personally, only just on principle. Well, 
you must not do so any more, in either theory or 
practice. But to return to our facts. Thorpe 
will come to see you to-morrow morning to ar- 
range about your dress and the sittings.” 

“But you’ll come with him ?” 

“No, I think you’ll make friends sooner with- 
out me. And look here, this is my first word of 
friendly counsel; if your father doesn’t go, you 
must take your maid with you to the studio.” 

“Why? He’s nice, isn’t he?” Julia asked, some- 
what dismayed. 


68 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


“Oh yes, he’s all right ; but it isn’t thought the 
thing to go alone, especially over there in the 
Quarter.” 

As Garvie said this he watched her carefully, 
half expecting another outburst of wrath, but 
there was only disappointment in her voice as 
she considered the prospect. 

“My, how awful! Jeanne just drives me wild 
with her *comme madame voudrezf She always 
sniffs and says that when I want my own way.” 

“She probably only needs sitting on to be as 
mild as milk. And then if you take her about, 
you can rub up your French and get to know 
your Paris.” 

“So I can,” Julia agreed, mentally sketching 
out educational excursions that would reduce the 
lazy Jeanne to despair. 

“And I promise not to say ‘Comme madame 
voudre^ once if you will allow me to walk home 
with you,” Garvie said. 

Side by side they strolled up the broad avenue 
towards the brightness of the western sky, and as 
they passed one portly nurse said to another, 
^'Dame, but there goes a fine couple, if you like.” 


69 


VII 

HER PORTRAIT 


T hat evening Mr. Praed scanned his 
daughter approvingly across the din- 
ner table, saying, ‘‘Seems to me as 
sight-seeing agrees with you. Never 
saw you look better since I took you away from 
Boulderwood.’’ 

“And please, do you remember the time when 
I ever did look anything but well?’’ Julia pro- 
tested, a bit consciously. 

“Well, not to say as you were pale or ill, but 
once or twice lately I’ve had a fancy you were 
mopy or homesick.” 

“The idea!” 

“Perhaps it was foolish. Well, and how did 
you get on after I left you?” 

Julia gave a casual sketch of her meeting with 
Andrew Garvie, which was none too casual to 
bring a pleased look into her father’s face. 

“That’s right,” he said heartily. “I had a silly 
kind of an idea as you didn’t like the young man, 
and I was sorry.” 

“What ever put that in your head?” Then, 
without waiting for an answer; “Look here, 
father ; you know all sorts of people at home — do 

70. 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


you happen to know a publisher among them?’" 

Only one keen glance from under his heavy 
grey eyebrows betrayed any surprise at this sud- 
den demand, as the old man answered, “Why yes, 
there is a publisher on the board of the Chiplau- 
guin pulp-mills — don’t you remember the Mr. 
Stratton as gave you the theatre-party when I 
took you to Chicago, and who came out last au- 
tumn to Boulderwood and went after mountain 
sheep with George ?” 

Now Miss Julia had good reason to remember 
the middle-aged widower who had shewn such 
an admiration for her. Of this, however, she 
gave no hint as she said innocently, “Why yes, 
he sent me that lovely box of roses from New 
York last Christmas. So he is a publisher, is 
he?” 

“He is a partner in Marshall Brothers, one of 
the biggest houses in all the States. But, what- 
ever can you be wanting with a publisher, Julie? 
You don’t happen to have been writing poetry, do 
you?” And another keen glance sought for 
symptoms of any such weakness. A frank laugh 
greeted this. 

“Gracious, do I look like writing poetry?” And 
then Julia proceeded to give her father a sketch 
of Sylvia Dorr’s labours and ambitions. She 
told her story eloquently and the old man seemed 
strongly interested. 

“Now that’s the kind of girl I like to hear 
about,” he commented heartily. “And I like her 


71 


HER PORTRAIT 


all the better for being proud and not leaning up 
against her friends. But what did you do?” he 
asked, with an evident certainty that his daughter 
had done something worth hearing of. 

‘‘Me? Oh well, I was going to ask Mr. Garvie 
how I could set about it, and then I thought, why 
shouldn’t I work it out for myself.” 

“That’s always the best way,” her father ap- 
proved. “Well, work it out, then.” 

“But you’ll have to tell me how to set about 
it.” 

At this feminine inconsistency Mr. Praed 
laughed with gusto, protesting, “Not a bit of it. 
You just think it over and you’ll hit on the com- 
mon-sense way all right.” 

Julia leant her chin comfortably on her clasped 
hands, and with eyes fixed on her father, began, 
“Well, suppose I were to write to Mr. Stratton 
and tell him all about the book, asking him what 
the outside price of publishing it would come to, 
and saying that you would guarantee him against 
any loss — ” 

“Hey?” 

The protest was evidently a matter of form, 
and Julia’s only notice of it was to go on, “Yes, 
that is what I’d have to say — if he would make 
her an offer to publish the book without speak- 
ing of you or me. There, is that common sense ?” 
she demanded in sudden triumph. 

“Remarkably so,” her father agreed. “Tell 
you what, Julie, before long you’ll be a woman 


72 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


your old father will be proud of, and your hus- 
band too, for the matter of that.” 

‘‘Oh, bother husbands. I don’t need a hus- 
band,” put in Julia with a fine blush. 

Mr. Praed shook his head solemnly. “Yes 
you do, now. It’s the natural way, and I hope 
and trust as none of my children may miss being 
happy as their mother and I were. Well, you 
write your letter to-morrow, and I’ll see you 
through. And now let’s go and find the proper 
place for me to smoke my pipe in this gilt-edged 
establishment.” 

Julia’s mind was set on that unthankful task of 
playing Providence, and the next morning she 
sent an urgent appeal to Sylvia Dorr to come to 
half past twelve dejeuner and counsel her on an 
important matter. “If people have fallen out 
or anything, it’s so much better for them to come 
on each other unexpected — gives them no time to 
get high-toned—and if deciding what dress I’m 
to wear isn’t important, I don’t know what is,” 
she mentally justified herself. 

“That tiresome dress,” she went on, wander- 
ing restlessly up to a sofa where the brocade 
folds of the historical dress glittered. “I’m sure 
Mr. Garvie would think it silly and ostentatious, 
but I’ll get it out of her, anyway.” 

When Sylvia arrived she was met by Julia, 
clad in a statuesquely plain dress of white cloth, 
the perfect outlines alone bearing witness to 
Madame Marcelle’s costly skill. 


73 


HER PORTRAIT 


“Why, you don’t look as though there were 
^anything the matter,” was Sylvia’s greeting. 

“No, why on earth should I ?” 

“Only that your petit hleu made me fancy that 
■something dreadful had happened, so that I left 
my work half finished.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry; but really I did want you 
badly .r; You see, here is Mr. Thorpe coming at two 
o’clock about this portrait, and I haven’t an idea 
wharto wear, or what to do — and I’m shy.” 

Sylvia laughed out. She could not help it, 
[though' mixed with her gladness there was a 
shrinking from the sudden knock of fate at the 
door. 

“And that’s why you brought me away from 
my daily toil, you spoilt child?” she said gaily. 
“But what has become of the Anne of Austria 
dress? Oh there it is,” catching sight of the 
sofa. “And it is even lovelier than I expected. 
Surely, you’re not going to turn up your nose 
at my design?” And she lifted the brocade 
gown daintily with outstretched hands so that 
her own mayflower face looked out above it at 
Julia, who said : 

“Oh the dress is perfect, but somehow I’m 
rather out of fancy for grand dress just now. I 
have a feeling that people might think it a silly 
sort of showing off, if I were painted in that. 
And so I put on this plain white dress to see if 
you thought it looked better.” 

A troubled appeal in her face gave Sylvia a 

74 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


hint of something more at question in her mind 
than a mere change of dress, and guessing that 
she would make Julia happier if she persuaded 
her to carry out her first intention, she said, 
“You must stick to your type. Nature made you 
for gorgeous plumage. If you had been born a 
peasant you would have worn a red handkerchief 
and bright cottons. Pm sure that there is a 
natural affinity between temperaments and the 
colours that suit their bodies. I am afraid that I 
am only a pink and blue person, while all the 
rich autumn russets and purples belong to you. 
Come, do let me see you in the dress.” 

“After lunch,” Julia said, looking well pleased. 
“See, here’s my father coming. Father, this is 
Miss Dorr.” 

Mr. Praed had a very kindly aspect as he took 
the thin, white hand into his vigorous grasp. 
“Delighted to see you, young lady. My girl here 
tells me as you are living in Paris alone and 
working for yourself. Now there’s nothing takes 
my fancy like pluck, and if you’ll let her and me 
be friendly like it will please us both, eh Julie?” 

For a moment Julia was afraid he may have 
offended the girl of whom she stood a bit in 
awe, but there was such a simple sincerity in 
his manner that it went straight to Sylvia’s 
heart, and she answered, “Indeed I shall, Mr. 
Praed, and be only too glad of it too.” 

And so they went to lunch in great content. 
At table, Sylvia’s quick senses could not but be 

75 


HER PORTRAIT 


conscious of frequent incongruities between her 
simpled-minded hosts and their showy setting. 

The rooms were those of an ordinary furnished 
apartment of the more expensive type, and it had 
never occurred to Julia to make them homelike, 
as other women did, with books and photos and 
flowers. The only sign of a personal taste was 
shown in two or three cages of birds at the differ- 
ent windows, canaries, little green parroquets, and 
a great, gorgeous macaw, who called hoarsely to 
his mistress from her bedroom. 

'Tt’s always the way,” Mr. Praed grumbled 
cheerfully to Sylvia, ‘‘never do we get to a town 
for a week but Julia brings home some outlandish 
animal. I bless my stars it’s only parrots this 
time, and no monkeys.” 

Julia laughed at some memory. “Father’s 
thinking of the dear little monkey I bought in 
Chicago, that ate up his pocket-book. We had 
to pay the man to take it back again,” she ex- 
plained. 

“And that was’nt the most expensive part of 
the job,” said her father. 

“But what will you do with all these birds when 
you leave Paris ?” Sylvia asked. 

“Oh, I always find someone who likes to have 
them. Our concierge’s wife will be made happy 
for ever with the parroquets, but as for Gorgo in 
there, he goes with me ; do you hear, father ?” 

“Just what I expected my dear, but perhaps 
some of those slippers he eats may disagree with 

76 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


his constitution before that,” he answered hope- 
fully. 

‘Tt was only two.” 

“And not pairs at that, Ed make you a bet,” 
her father protested. 

Sylvia talked more than usual to keep down 
her growing nervousness at the prospect of meet- 
ing Thorpe. It was nearly two months since 
she had seen him, and she could not but wonder 
what his manner to her would be. 

When they had left the table and were taking 
coffee in the crude red and gilt salon, she felt that 
anything would be better than sitting there to 
quiescently await Thorpe’s appearance. So she 
made the suggestion : 

“Are not we going to get the question of the 
dress settled? Because I really must go home 
soon for an hour or so of daylight work.” 

“That’s right, young lady. Always attend to 
business. I expect I’ll take a stroll and see what 
news Mr. Britski has,” Mr. Praed said, and the 
two girls were left to their own devices. 

Jeanne, the maid, was allowed no share in the 
entertainment, for Sylvia helped Julia to don the 
elaborate dress. 

“There,” she said, after the last touch was 
given, standing off for an admiring inspection. 
“You are a perfect presentment of a great lady 
of Charles the First’s day. You would have de- 
fended your castle as well as did the Countess of 
Derby.” 


77 


HER PORTRAIT 


She was right. Julia showed a stately bearing, 
standing there before the long glass, the pearls 
twisted through the loose dark masses of her 
hair, the lines of neck and shoulders rising above 
the falling lace collar, and the full, shining folds 
of brocade. 

At her words Julia's smile faded into wistful- 
ness. “Me a great lady! That would be hard 
to fancy," she said. Then turning to Sylvia, 
“Tell me really, do you think I'll ever learn to be 
a lady? Not the imitation kind that's all right 
to look at — I know I'm that, now — but the sort 
that knows and understands about all the beauti- 
ful things in the world, like you do." 

Sylvia gave a kind little laugh, as she took the 
girl's hand and patted it. “My dear child, you 
must not fancy that I am anything out of the 
way. It is just that I have lived about among 
clever people and picked up things from them. 
Why, of course you are a lady now, in every 
instinct of your nature. All you want is to know 
a little more of the world, and that soon comes. 
Why, how old are you? Twenty?" 

“Twenty-one." 

“And you expect at that age to know ever- 
thing, you goose. No, be very well pleased with 
yourself as you are, and go on, all the same, tak- 
ing in everything you can," Sylvia advised. 

“How good you are to me," Julia said grate- 
fully, her self-distrustful fancies scattered by the 
judicious words of praise. 

78 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


A knock at the door, and a servant with 
Thorpe’s card broke in on their talk. 

Julia was quick to mark her friend’s nervous- 
ness, and took command of the situation. ‘T’ll 
feel like a fool going to receive a man I don’t 
know, dressed up like this,” she said with well- 
feigned shyness. ‘'You go in and tell him I’m 
coming.” 

‘T can not do that,” Sylvia said in a final tone. 
“We will go together.” 

So it was; and Thorpe, standing staring ab- 
sently at the cage of green parroquets, turned at 
sound of their coming, to see his young hostess 
in her bravery of apparel, led in by Sylvia Dorr, 
the light of eager greeting in her eyes. 

“Allow me to introduce Charlotte de la Tre- 
mouille. Countess of Derby,” she said gaily, and 
Thorpe’s heart was lightened from the fear that 
she would greet him with sad or proud looks. 

“Please don’t mind her, Mr. Thorpe,” said 
Julia, as she came forward. “It was she made 
me put on this dress to see if you liked it for my 
picture, but if you think it looks silly — ” 

Thorpe was holding Sylvia’s hand as long as 
possible. “Silly?” he said. “Miss Dorr knows 
my tastes better than that. She knows that this 
is like a Titian or Tintoretto portrait, if only I 
were up to it. It is very good in you to trust 
yourself to my unknown hands. Miss Praed.” 

“Oh, but Mr. Garvie says that you are as clever 
as he is,” Julia answered as though that settled 


79 


HER PORTRAIT 


thought, ‘‘Oh, I’ve left the little jewel-safe open 
— just what father told me never to do. Please 
excuse me.” 

She could not stay away for long, but there 
was time for Thorpe to say to Sylvia, “It is so 
good to see you again. You understood that it 
was because I was down on my luck that I did 
not come?” 

“Yes,” came the soft answer, “but was not that 
just the reason you should have? Ought not 
friends to help each other ?” 

“I will be wiser next time.” 

“Yes, please.” 

Then the door opened to reveal Julia, one hand 
raised to support the gorgeous macaw, who was 
crooning to her in high content. 

“Jove ! That is perfect. Just as it is. I must 
have you like that, Miss Praed,” Thorpe cried in 
frank enthusiasm. 

As Sylvia agreed with him, it was soon settled, 
and the details arranged, Thorpe walked home 
with Sylvia, and she got no hours of daylight 
work. 


8o 


VIII 

FONTAINBLEAU 

OTHING helps a nice girl to make 



friends more quickly with a man than 
the knowledge that he is in love with 
a woman she likes. Julia and Thorpe 


were soon on the frankest of terms, and, 
in spite of the presence of Jeanne, she enjoyed 
the hours spent at Thorpe’s studio. 

He had the portrait-painter’s knack of keeping 
his model in a good humour, and Julia talked 
away, sometimes telling him tales of her moun- 
tain rambles at home, and of the strange waifs 
and strays of civilization to be met there. At 
other times she questioned him of the things 
around her with which she was anxious to become 
familiar; and Thorpe would have been amused 
to know that often, when she went home, she 
carefully wrote down the names of artists and 
pictures which he had casually mentioned, to- 
gether with his comments on them. 

True, there were days when Thorpe looked hag- 
gard and spoke abstractedly, and after these Julia 
spared no pains to entice Sylvia into taking 
Jeanne’s place as chaperone. 

It was not always that she succeeded, but when 
she did, the spell of Sylvia’s gentleness worked. 


8i 


FONTAINEBLEAU 


and drove away the dark humour. Occasionally, 
Mr. Praed went with his daughter to the studio, 
and Thorpe showed great delight in the old man’s 
reminiscences of his days of early hardship and 
adventure in the Michigan forests. 

The portrait made rapid progress, for Thorpe 
worked with feverish energy, sometimes borrow- 
ing the costume to place on a lay figure. It was 
about half finished when Julia had the brilliant 
idea of giving a birthday party. 

‘‘What’s it to be ?” asked her father, taking up 
the idea vigorously. “A theatre party with sup- 
per at a restaurant? A dance? Though I fancy 
we wouldn’t have enough people for that, unless 
we asked Mrs. Mallock to look them up for us.” 

“Bother Mrs. Mallock! It’s not going to be 
her party. It’s all my own, this time. Now just 
listen, and see how well I’ve arranged it,” and she 
leant forward in her favourite pose of her chin on 
hands. 

“You know you love going charging round in 
an automobile, and fancy your driving, no end. 
Well, they’ve got them to hold six, and that would 
just suit us. We can start in the morning, go 
down to Fontainebleau, see the old palace, where 
the kings and queens used to live, have lunch, 
take a drive in the forest that they say is just like 
the wild woods, and get home in time for a 
scramble supper here. Now isn’t that well 
planned?” 


82 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


‘‘Splendid,” said her admiring parent. “How 
ever did you find it all out ?” 

“Oh, Mr. Garvie has been down there like 
that, and told me about it. He knows the best 
roads, and if you get tired driving the thing, he 
can.” 

“Strikes me, this is Mr. Garvie’s party,” the 
old man said, with twinkle in his eye, but Julia 
ignored the remark. 

He made a loyal protest when he found that 
Mrs. Mallock was not included among the four 
guests, but Julia was able to prove that the lady 
was in bed with a cold, and so the party re- 
mained as she had settled it. 

There were Garvie and Thorpe in tweeds and 
holiday humour, Sylvia Dorr smiling under a 
flower-wreathed hat, trimmed by herself the night 
before, and Miss Oakes grimly amiable behind a 
brown gauze veil. 

Can any band of boys and girls start out with 
the same determined sense of enjoyment as do a 
group of those old enough to have known the 
cares of the strenuous life, when they leave these 
behind them for a day, to let the joy of the world 
sink into their souls, with refreshment and heal- 
ing? Julia was the only one of the six who had 
not as yet known the harder side of life, and per- 
haps even she had her secret problems to solve. 

Mr. Praed was a proud man as he took his seat, 
his motor-cap pulled well down over his eyes, and 
started southward, crossing the river and run- 

83 


FONTAINEBLEAU 


ning along the wide, leafy avenues that skirt the 
Invalides. 

Soon the dreary southern suburbs gave place 
to eccentric little villas, pride of the retired Pari- 
sian tradesman’s heart. 

‘‘Seems to me as they must grow an extra 
crop of them coloured glass balls in their gar- 
dens,” Mr. Praed said to Miss Oakes, who sat 
beside him. 

At last they were in the open country, among 
the first green of meadows and woods, and over 
the meadows sounded, piercing sweet, the song 
of the lark, and from the depths of the woods 
came the mysterious gurgle of the cuckoo. At 
this latter, Julia was especially delighted. 

“I believe you thought they only existed in 
poetry books,” Garvie accused her. 

“Well, that’s all I ever knew of them, anyway,” 
she retorted, unabashed. 

When they reached Fontainebleau some of 
them might have liked to make for the forest, but 
their young hostess held them resolutely to their 
sight-seeing. 

Garvie was at her side as they passed through 
galleries and rooms once stirring with history, 
now abandoned to drowsy guardians and inquisi- 
tive tourists. He was curious to see what im- 
pression it all made upon her, and rather to his 
surprise found that she took in the spirit of the 
place with quick intuition. 

Christina of Spain and Monaldeschi, Jose- 

84 


GABRIEL PRAEDLS CASTLE 

phine’s divorce, and Napoleon's parting with 
his old guard — she had some mental picture of 
them all, and when she shewed a lively interest in 
the salamander of Francis and the crescent of 
Diane de Poitiers, he ventured a joke on her new 
learning. ‘‘Have you become a disciple of Miss 
Dorr’s, and fallen under the spell of the Renais- 
sance ?” 

Julia flushed and laughed, but answered brave- 
ly, “It’s all so splendid that I can’t help loving it. 
Still, one needs to fancy it a perpetual summer 
time, with roses and sunshine, and everyone al- 
ways young and strong. Diane de Poitiers with a 
toothache, or these courtiers with their velvet 
and lace muddy or shabby, would break the spell 
at once. Then I suppose my fancy is taken by the 
contrast of that old-time gorgeousness with all 
that I used to know best, the lumberman’s camps 
and the mining settlements up among the great, 
dark mountains; the winter nights, shining and 
white like Revelations; the summer thunder- 
storms booming and rolling among the crags, and 
the strong men fighting for civilization among it 
all.” 

It was the first time that Garvie had heard 
Julia speak out her thoughts in this fashion, and 
he kept for long the remembrance of the girl in 
her white serge dress, her face bright with inter- 
est, the stiff old-world setting forming a back- 
ground to her young vitality. 

They had loitered near a window at one end of 

.^5 


FONTAINEBLEAU 


the stately Gallerie d’Henri II, to look down on 
the stretch of formal garden below, while the 
others dutifully followed Mr. Praed as he kept 
close to the guide he had engaged, who was ex- 
patiating in a loud voice on the frescoes of Prim- 
aticcio. Mr. Praed believed in getting his 
money's worth out of sight-seeing, as he did out 
of everything else. 

The spring sunshine came through the win- 
dow, bringing out wonderful lights and shades 
in Julia's black hair, against which rested the 
red poppies in her hat, and Garvie thought to 
himself that she was better worth looking at than 
all the frescoes of the Renaissance. His mind 
was rapidly dropping its critical attitude towards 
the girl, and it was with full interest that he 
answered, ‘‘Yes, that must be the life that makes 
real men and women. I have sometimes thought 
that I have fallen into a feather-bed existence 
here; that if I were to have the courage to leave 
these crowded art circles and go out by myself 
into a fresher atmosphere, I might paint some- 
thing of my own country and people — something 
that would live through its reality." 

There was no doubt of Julia's interest, as she 
listened with shining eyes. “Oh, do, Mr. Garvie," 
she said impulsively. “Come out to us among 
our mountains, and I will show you the stretches 
of wild-flowers at the foot of the rocks. I have 
seen the white-haired, Swedish children filling 
their arms with them. And then there are the 


86 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


days of blue autumn haze when one sometimes 
meets a half-breed woman in a dull red dress 
coming down a path between the yellow trees, 
with a big bundle on her back. Oh, there are 
pictures everywhere.” 

“And you have the true eye for them. Why, 
with a few words you show me the whole scheme 
of colour. And I begin to suspect you of being an 
idealist too — the children picking flowers in the 
spring sunshine, the tired woman in the autumn 
evening — you feel the meaning of both. Yes, I 
shall come some day, and shall remind you that, as 
it was you who asked me, you are bound to play 
showman to your mountains.” 

His ready response brought a startled look into 
Julia’s eyes. “Oh, I didn’t mean to ask you to 
come,” she faltered. “Of course it’s all rough out 
there, and I see how much more your life here can 
give you.” 

“There, it might give me the best of all,” pro- 
tested Garvie, who was losing his head a bit, and 
saying more than he had meant to say. After 
all, how many men when they begin to make love, 
do it of foreordained purpose ? 

Just then an impatient hail from Mr. Praed 
broke in on their talk and sent Julia skimming 
down the length of the gallery with a gay protest 
against the slipperiness of royal floors. 

When the palace had been viewed the guide was 
paid, and Mr. Praed relaxed the vigour of his 
sight-seeing and was content to imbibe his history 

87 


FONTAINEBLEAU 


from Miss Oakes, nearly as true an encyclopedia 
of facts as Baedecker. 

Thorpe and Sylvia loitered by the pond where 
the aged carp form an attraction to loungers. 
There was the breath of sun- warmed April flow- 
ers in the air, and there was the return of hope 
in their hearts. 

‘‘Did you ever hear the old French name for 
spring, le renouveaiif* Thorpe asked, looking 
down at Sylvia where she sat on the stone coping 
of the pond. “The word has been in my mind 
often to-day. It seems to mean a fresh chance, 
a new start in life ; all that I feel now I am with 
you. I can’t help knowing that this portrait of 
Miss Praed’s is going well, and if only it is a 
success and my picture gets into the Salon, I may 
have a show yet.” He hesitated, and then went 
on earnestly: “I have made up my mind if 
things go better, to go home and have a try for 
portrait- work. This Paris is stultifying to a 
man’s soul, unless he is a hero, and I’m not that, 
God knows. You don’t like Paris, do you 
Sylvia ?” 

She looked up and spoke with unusual vehe- 
mence. “No, I hate it. I only stay here because 
my fashion drawings need the Paris stamp at 
home.” 

“But why shouldn’t you do better work than 
those things,” Thorpe pleaded. “That article in 
the Era on the women of Catherine de Medici’s 
court was charming — everyone said so. Why not 

88 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


stick to work like that and drop those wretched 
fashion things 

Sylvia laughed. ‘The spring has gone to your 
head and makes you forget the lean years when 
one needs a prosaic standby. To tell you the 
truth, I’m too great a coward to leave the safe 
shelter of the fashions. Good work takes time, 
and those drawings are turned out so quickly, and 
the pay is a certainty.” 

Thorpe’s voice dulled as he said, “It’s hard that 
you and I cannot afford the luxury of honest 
work.” 

There was a nervous questioning in Sylvia’s 
upward glance as she said cheerfully, “Oh, yes, 
we can. Work may be just as honest, if it is not 
grand. But I often think how wonderful it is 
that I have got on as well as I have.” 

“Yes, it makes me all the more ashamed to 
see a frail little woman, like you, facing the world 
so bravely, and holding her own as I can not do,” 
Thorpe said gloomily. 

“Why should you be ashamed of bad luck?” 
Sylvia protested : “Bad luck, that is I trust, over 
and done with. Then you have not heard from 
the Salon yet?” 

“No, but I must very soon now,” and he drew 
a sharp breath. “I had not the heart to ask you to 
look at my picture when it was finished, but I 
know that it is good work, that they ought not to 
refuse. I am willing to be judged by it. What is 
it Browning says — my old trick you see — ‘I stand 

89 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

on my attainment?’ Ah, if I might only say as 
he does, 

Other heights in other lives, God willing; 

All the gifts from all the heights, you own, love.” 

His voice shook, and his hand was near hers 
on the stone coping. 

‘Why not?” and with the words her eyes met 
his in sweet directness. 

There was no response of lover’s gladness. 
“Perhaps some day I may regain the right. Not 
now,” he murmured; and bewildered, pained, 
Sylvia was silent. 

On the pause came the summons of Mr. Praed, 
calling them to lunch at the Hotel de I’Aigle Noir, 
and thus in a short time the worthy man inter- 
rupted two interesting interviews. 

After lunch came the hours in the forest, where 
a shimmer of vividest young green rested on the 
birch trees, without as yet veiling their white 
branches, where the downy bracken stems were 
uncurling their heads ; and white garlic blossoms 
spread over the ground like snow. 

But it was the rocks and pine trees that aroused 
Julia’s enthusiasm. 

“It’s almost like home,” she cried, and insisted 
on a stoppage, and a scramble up one of the jag- 
ged slopes. No one felt any desire to hurry, and 
it was a marvel that they got back to the Avenue 
Friedland before the yellow twilight had alto- 
gether faded in the west. 


90 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Then came a meal that was half dinner, half 
supper, altogether informal in its gaiety. 

‘‘Now ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Praed 
rising, “weVe had our little outing, and weVe 
all been happy together, and I want you to drink 
to the health of that young woman opposite. Miss 
Julia Praed, who is twenty-one to-day. She ain’t 
likely to be any better looking, or any better- 
natured than she is now.” There came a chorus 
of protest against any such necessity, at which the 
old gentleman beamed. “Well, I daresay I agree 
with you on that point myself, but what we’d all 
like, I’m sure, is for her to go on increasing in 
health and happiness right up to the end.” His 
voice sank on the last word. Then, “Julie, my 
dear, here’s luck,” and he reached across the table 
to clink his glass against hers, an example fol- 
lowed by the others. 


91 


IX 

BRITSKI 

I T was the next morning that Mr. Praed 
dropped into Britski’s galleries, those won- 
derful treasure-houses of art, old and new. 
From the outside on the Avenue de 
r Opera they looked like two small adjoining 
shops, one window displaying two or three paint- 
ings against red velvet drapery, the other a con- 
fusion of ivory carvings, bits of old china, silver- 
ware, all in the approved state of dustiness for 
bric-a-brac shops. Within, there were long show- 
rooms, the darker ones below filled with old furni- 
ture and other antiques, while in the top of the 
house were two sky-lighted galleries in which 
hung collections of old and of new pictures. 

'‘Never mix the past and the present if you 
want to do either justice,” the owner was wont 
to say. 

The cream of the collection was to be found in 
a small room at the end of the picture-galleries, 
a room which Britski made his own private re- 
treat. Here stood the most perfect cinque cento 
cabinet in the place, here hung a tiny Millet that 
Britski always intended to sell if he should get a 


92 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


large enough price, and always deferred parting 
with on some excuse. The man was a genuine 
lover of art, and looked forward to a day when he 
should be rich enough to keep the best of his 
treasures for his own enjoyment. He had angled 
for Mr. Praed with the skill and patience he knew 
how to use when the game seemed worth it. 
First, he was led on to acquire the habit of drop- 
ping in at Britski’s in idle hours, to wander freely 
about the galleries, smoking and chatting with the 
owner, who had always leisure to answer his ques- 
tions. Thus, by a series of delicate experiments, 
the latter ascertained that pictures had small at- 
traction for the Canadian. He might choose to 
buy a moderate-priced, bright-coloured modern 
painting, that told its own tale of incident or 
humour, but he would never pay down his thou- 
sands for some dingy canvas on the assurance that 
it was a valuable old master, or for some weird 
impressionist work, because it happened to be the 
latest fashion. 

And so it followed that Mr. Praed’s steps were 
seldom guided towards the picture galleries, but 
various costly antiques were brought in his way, 
and their prices casually mentioned until he 
grew used to their value. 

Then, one day, the carefully watched for clew 
came, when the old lumberman’s eyes brightened 
at sight of a silver centre-piece of the time of 
Henri II. There were three high vases joined 


93 


BRITSKI 


by a low colonnade along which were studded 
exquisitely worked little statuettes. 

He at once threw out hints of buying the 
master-piece, but Britski insisted that it did not 
belong to him, but had been sent by a famous col- 
lector for repairs. 

He promised, however, to keep a sharp lookout 
for any chance of buying a similar article. He 
apparently saw that the time had come for the 
fish to bite, for, on Mr. Praed’s next visit, he told 
him the story of the impoverished daughter of a 
noble family, forced to sell the ancestral furnish- 
ing of her home, the story which Mr. Praed had 
repeated to Garvie at his dinner-table. So far 
Britski had said nothing more definite, and Mr. 
Praed was growing impatient. ‘Hf he doesn’t 
come down to business. I’ll let him know as there 
are more dealers in Paris than him,” he fumed 
with an effort at self-assertion. 

The conventual calm of the place soothed him, 
and when he found the owner carefully studying 
an illuminated breviary through a magnifying 
glass, his greeting was pacific, though to the pur- 
pose, ‘‘Morning, Mr. Britski. Got any news for 
me today of that there castle ? IPs not in Spain, 
I Hope.” 

“Ah no, not in Spain, Mr. Praed,” and the 
small, slight man laughed and rubbed his hands 
together appreciatively. 

Voice and laugh were low and pleasantly modu- 
lated, and Britski’s appearance was not unattrac- 


94 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


tive. His sallow face with its aquiline features 
was of the Slavonic type, and through all its 
impassivity there was a gently sad expression that 
hinted at past failures. 

Laying down the breviary with a lingering 
touch as though he loved the old morocco, Britski 
politely waved his visitor to an armchair, while 
he took a seat opposite. Mr. Praed had been 
shown into his private sanctum, and the heavy 
curtains were closed behind him. 

‘Tt is strange,” Britski began in his careful 
English, ‘‘but I was about to write and give you 
the news you ask for. Yes sir. Mademoiselle de 
Rostrenan has decided to give you the first choice 
of the family treasures — treasures which I assure 
you are no everyday affair. I consider myself 
lucky that I am able to secure such a chance for 
you.” 

“That’s all right then,” said Mr. Praed comfor- 
tably, “and now the next question is my going to 
see them. I suppose you’ll come and show me the 
way. I ain’t much good at French, and you said 
this castle was in an out-of-the-way place, didn’t 
you ?” 

“It is down on the southern coast of Brittany, 
a long day’s railway journey from Paris, with an 
hour’s drive afterward. You would not care to 
have the things packed and sent here?” Britski 
questioned. 

“No, no,” was the testy rejoinder. “Didn’t I 
tell you that I wanted to see for myself what an 


95 


BRITSKI 


old castle and its fittings-out was like? No, I’ll 
be off as soon as can be. Would the end of the 
week suit you?” 

Britski looked thoughtful as though weighing 
possibilities, before he said smoothly, “I fear that 
I cannot leave my business just now, but I could 
easily find you a good travelling servant or courier 
who spoke French and English.” 

Mr. Praed, with all a self-made man’s distrust 
of being managed by such people, answered 
hastily : 

‘‘No, no, I ain’t such a fool as not to be able to 
find my way all right, if you write out on a 
paper the names I want, and all that. I’ve done it 
in that fashion in Mexico. And now let’s see the 
catalogue.” And Mr. Praed prepared to enjoy 
himself. 

Britski watched closely the effect of his words, 
as he answered, “I have never received a com- 
plete catalogue from Mile, de Rostrenan. That 
she prefers to go over with you herself. You see, 
I am nothing but an agent in this matter, receiv- 
ing a commission on the sale. But,” and here he 
lowered his voice cautiously, “I have been asked 
to explain to you in confidence that, while the 
Rostrenan treasures of tapestry and armour, of 
medieval furniture and china, are well known to 
connoisseurs, the public is ignorant of the most 
valuable part of the collection. It seems that as 
far back as their records go, the Rostrenan fam- 
ily has always been in possession of a marvellous 

q6 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


hoard of silver cups and vessels of Greek or 
Roman workmanship, many of them magnificent- 
ly embossed with classical subjects. These things 
have never been photographed or accurately 
drawn, but an agent whom I can trust has seen 
them and reports them of the highest value. 

‘Tf the lords of Rostrenan knew whether this 
treasure were the spoil of medieval crusades, or of 
some Norman pirate shipwrecked on their rocky 
coast, or, like the treasure found near Rennes, 
were simply turned up by the plough, they have 
never said, and the local impression seems to have 
been that the things were long since sold and 
scattered. But I have confidential information 
from the young lady that these valuable articles 
are still at Rostrenan and that they must be sold 
without delay. And so, you see, my dear sir, that 
this matter is a larger one than is at first visible.” 

His keen glance sought Mr. Praed’s face only 
to find it bright with interest. 

‘‘That’s something like.” the latter said, thump- 
ing his stout stick vigourously on the floor. “I 
didn’t want any twopenny ha’ penny sort of 
affair. But when you talk of cups and vessels — ” 
He hesitated. “I suppose you mean they are 
something ornamental. Just plain silver tea cups 
wouldn’t be much use, you know.” 

Britski smiled the merest bit, as he answered, 
“Perhaps they might be better described as vases 
and salvers; handsome table ornaments, in fact. 
I will read you the young lady’s description of 


97 


B R I T S K I 


one or two pieces: ‘There is a silver dish, two 
and a half feet in diameter, on which is embossed 
the abduction of Briseis and her restoration to 
Achilles’—’’ 

“What’s that ?” interrupted Mr. Praed. 

“Those are scenes from Greek history,” was the 
explanation. “ ‘Another piece is a cup called a 
pathe, with reliefs representing a contest be- 
tween Bacchus and Hercules, and bordered by 
medallions of Roman emperors from Hadrian to 
Geta’ — this one must be of great value,” Britski 
looked up from the letter to say with appreciation. 

“It certainly sounds well,” the other agreed. 
“But look here, you haven’t said why you spoke 
of all this in a confidential way. I should have 
thought such things would be best sent to Paris 
to be sold with as much fuss as possible — that is 
if the young lady needs all the money she can get.” 

The objection was shrewd, and the lines around 
Britski’s eyes contracted with keenness to meet it. 
“No doubt, as you say that would be the best 
method, if the owner could prove that the silver 
was not treasure-trove, dug up from the earth or 
washed ashore, and so liable to be claimed by the 
government. 

“The family have always been strong royalists 
and clericals, and so obnoxious to the present gov- 
ernment, especially since the peasants in their 
neighborhood opposed the expulsion of the Sis- 
ters. I have heard that the Prefet down there is 


98 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


on the lookout to catch them tripping, so this 
poor girl has to be on her guard.” 

‘‘Well, whatever the man you mention may be, 
I donT think much of him to be sniffing round an 
orphan in that fashion,” Mr. Praed broke out 
hotly, and with the words the strain in Britski’s 
face relaxed. 

“I fear that the French have fallen away from 
their old-time chivalry, at least we Hungarians 
think so,” he said loftily. Then becoming prac- 
tical again, he asked, “Shall I write to Mile, de 
Rostrenan and say that you will go down on the 
tenth, to the nearest village — it is about three or 
four miles from the chateau — and see the collec- 
tion? You ought to be fairly comfortable at the 
inn there.” 

“Oh that donT matter. An old lumberman 
like me knows how to rough it, and if you’ll send 
along that man of yours to see me as far as the vil- 
lage, it will be all right. Let’s see — Tuesday is 
the ninth — yes, that suits well enough. My 
daughter is busy with this portrait of hers, and 
won’t be lonely. By-the-by, you are up in those 
things. Do you know a young American artist 
named Rupert Thorpe ?” 

Again the deep lines around Britski’s eyes con- 
tracted as though a light had been flashed before 
him. 

“Rupert Thorpe,” he repeated vaguely, as if not 
remembering the name. “Oh yes, I know him. 
I have once or twice bought small things of his, 

l.ofC. 


99 


BRITSKI 


when he was very anxious to sell. Do I under- 
stand that he is painting Miss Praed’s portrait?'’ 

‘^Yes, he's been at it for a week or so, and 
seems to put his whole backbone into the job. A 
clever young fellow, Mr. Garvie calls him,” and 
he glanced sharply at Britski, whose noncommital 
tone perplexed him. 

‘^Oh yes, he is clever,” the other acknowledged. 
Then with a seeming outburst of frankness, “But 
if you had done me the honour to consult me, he 
is not the man I should have chosen to paint a 
beautiful young lady's portrait.” 

“What! what! Nothing wrong with him, eh?” 

“Oh, nothing definite, only if you knew these 
young men of the Latin Quarter, wild and reck- 
less, living from hand to mouth among models 
and such, you would see that they are hardly the 
kind for comme-il-faut young ladies to know. I 
trust Miss Praed does not go to his studio ?” 

“Well, yes, she does,” was the crestfallen 
answer. “But then Mr. Garvie spoke well of him, 
and he seemed such a good-natured young chap.” 

“Young men will stick to each other,” Britski 
conceded, “and I allow that he is all that is pleas- 
ant as long as things go to his liking, but let his 
vanity once be offended — and he is touchy as the 
devil — and he is off, with his work finished or un- 
finished, that is all the same to him. And that is 
the last you see of him. I speak from experience, 
I who tried to help him,” and the Hungarian 

loo 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


shook his head in mournful resignation to youth- 
ful ingratitude. 

“Dear, dear, that's too bad! Well, if he tries 
any of those tricks on me he’ll hear of it !” 

“Ah, sir, you might as well let a will-o’the-wisp 
hear of it. When he vanishes, he vanishes, that’s 
all.” 

“Well, he hasn’t vanished yet, for I left my 
daughter at his studio an hour ago. And that re- 
minds me, I must be getting home for lunch,” and 
Mr. Praed hoisted himself out of the armchair 
and proceeded through the show rooms towards 
the door. 

Without noticing two ladies who stood with 
their backs to the light, he spoke over his shoulder 
to Britski, “Well then, you’ll settle it for me to 
leave Paris on Wednesday, the loth, eh?” 

“Leave Paris, dear Mr. Praed. Not for long I 
hope,” said one of the ladies, in the shrill voice of 
Mrs. Mallock. 

From behind the old man came a fierce glare 
from Britski, but either the light was dull or the 
lady was obstinate, for she held her ground, leav- 
ing her companion absorbed in the inspection of 
old laces. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Mallock,” said Mr. 
Praed. “Well no, I don’t suppose my little trip 
will take more than a week or so.” 

“Ah, that is a comfort. I feared we were going 
to lose you,” Mrs. Mallock said with genuine fer- 
vour. “And dear Julia, she goes with you?” 

lOI 


BRITSKI 


“Don’t think so ma’am. You see there’s this 
portrait.” 

“But you can’t leave her alone in Paris. 
You’ll have to let me go and take care of her.” 

This view had never occurred to Mr. Praed, 
who was used to consider his daughter equally 
capable of looking after herself in a lumber camp 
or a Chicago hotel. However, he had acquired the 
habit of deferring to Mrs. Mallock as an authority 
in all matters Parisian, and so answered meekly, 
but without enthusiasm, “I’m sure, it’s very kind 
in you Mrs. Mallock, and Julie will be delighted 
to have you.” 

Upon this latter point, however, he had his 
doubts — doubts which gave him a deprecatory 
manner that evening until he had confessed his 
weakness, and received absolution in Julia’s good- 
humoured, though resigned acquiescence. 

“She is sly. She knew that I never would 
have asked her if she hadn’t got hold of you first. 
But I needn’t let her bother me much. She can 
take the carriage and go ’round doing the grand 
by herself sometimes. She loves that. It would 
have been so nice though to have had Miss Dorr.” 

Mr. Praed said nothing at this. The distrust 
of Thorpe implanted by Britski had momentarily 
cast its shadow over Sylvia too. 


iioa 


X 

GARVIE’S MODEL 

I T’S no use Virginie. I’m sorry, for you’ve 
been posing like an angel, but those eyes 
won’t do. You’re in for a hard day’s work 
to-morrow, for we must go at them afresh.” 
An equable man in practical affairs, Garvie was 
a slow, and sometimes a fussy, painter. Hard to 
satisfy with his own work, he would go on trying 
to bring it up to his standard until his friends 
sometimes told him that he had taken the life out 
of it. 

Intent on the defects of his picture, he did not 
look up until he noticed that no answer came from 
the girl, who had already changed her dress and 
now hovered in an uncertain fashion between the 
easel and the door. 

‘Tn a hurry ?” he asked carelessly. 

‘‘Sapristi ! No. At least — I thought you 
might do without me now,” and her raised hands 
fumbled nervously with the folds of her veil. 
Garvie looked puzzled. 

‘‘Yes, of course, I do not need you any more to- 
day. But come early to-morrow.” 

Virginie’s sombre eyes were fixed intently on 
him, as she said, with a sort of dull impatience. 


103 


GARVIE’S MODEL 


mean, do without me to-morrow — do without 
me altogether. I cannot sit any more.” 

Garvie was tired and discouraged, and spoke 
sharply, “But you must. Did not you hear me say 
that I shall have to do the eyes all over again?” 

“Yes, I heard,” was the sullen answer. 

“And you know that this London show is an 
important thing. Come, be reasonable. Why, 
Virginie, you are crying. Whatever is up now ?” 

With a quick movement, he had caught her by 
the shoulders and turned her to the light in an at- 
tempt to see her face, but she just hung her head 
and sobbed, “It is only that it hurts to disappoint 
you, the only man who for years had treated me 
decently. Oh yes, I know,” with a sudden flash, 
“they fall in love with me, and then for a time I 
rule them, the imbeciles, but — well, no matter. 
Indeed I would not go if I could help it.” 

And now she was looking up at him, her face 
softened as few had seen it, and Garvie, realizing 
her weird fascination, knew that it behooved him 
to walk warily. 

“And why cannot you help it? You are free, 
are you not ?” he asked gravely. 

She gave a little laugh that had no mirth in it. 
“Who can say that he is free ? All are bound in 
some fashion. But tell me, then, if I went for 
always you would miss me in your painting, eh ?” 

She had struck the right chord to stir his cau- 
tion. “Miss you? I do not see how I should 
work without you. You have been the best part 


104 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


of all my last year's pictures. Those cairngorm 
eyes of yours must magnetize me, for I never feel 
tired when I am painting you,” he broke out. 
Then with an attempt to lighten the situation, 
‘'But you are only talking nonsense. Why should 
you go away?” 

In a vibrant whisper she answered, “I must go. 
I must go.” Then, still holding him with her 
eyes, she went on, slowly, intently : “There is one 
way — if you needed me so much — if we could go 
away from Paris — anywhere — ^what does it mat- 
ter? — where you could work. There is Venice — 
that is good in the spring. Then you could al- 
ways have me to paint — but del! I know it is 
impossible.” 

If he had ever really fallen under her spell, 
Garvie might now have forgotten the grim les- 
sons he had learnt from seeing men sink under 
such a life as she suggested. 

“Dropping down the ladder, rung by rung.” 

As it was, he was able to stand firm, though he 
felt a genuine pity as he took her hand, saying, 
“Yes, Virginie, it is impossible. I could not leave 
Paris now and give up all I have gained. I have 
made my place here and must stick to it. But 
why will you not tell me what is the matter, and 
let me see if I can help you ?” 

Twisting herself away from his grasp she cried 
wildly, “You can give me no help. I must go! 
Let me go !” 

105 


GARVIE’S MODEL 


‘‘If there is any one bothering you for 
money — ” 

“No, I need no money now. Keep what you 
owe me, in case I ever come back. Listen, Mon- 
sieur Garvie, I have told Suzette Boulay to come 
and see you. She has red hair — ’’ 

“Damn Suzette Boulay ! Virginie — 

“Adieu, monsieur, adieu,’' and with a swift 
rush, the girl was gone. 

Garvie stood looking towards the door, and 
presently drew a deep breath, partly relief, partly 
regret. 

“Poor soul. The tragic forces have turned up, 
sure enough. Well, thank goodness, I did not 
make an ass of myself. I believe it was a close 
shave, once. And now I think I need my dejeu- 
ner after all this.” 

The peace of his usual haunt greeted him, as he 
entered the dingy room at the Hotel de France et 
Bretagne, where the little old lady at the desk 
smiled a friendly greeting, and where every man 
in the room was an acquaintance, and many were 
friends. Such quiet places there still are in Paris, 
where the provincial or tourist seldom penetrates. 

Garvie passed on to his usual seat at a corner 
table, where already Frye was in earnest discus- 
sion with a burly Norman, winner of last year’s 
first medal, and with the gaunt correspondent and 
art-critic of an important American paper. 

Frye’s mind was evidently full of his topic, for 

io6 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


on his short greeting, he added the news, 
‘‘Thorpe's picture is refused.” 

“Not possible? Such clever work. Strong as 
nails,” Garvie protested. 

“Clever if you like,” said the medallist, “but all 
the same it was immature. He is young enough 
for the rebuff to do him no harm. A refusal or 
two might have been good for you and me, five 
years ago.” 

“Injustice is good for no one. It may be his 
last strong effort,” Garvie said brusquely. He 
was seriously disturbed at the news. 

The critic lighted a cigar, as he delivered his 
dictum, in the fashion of one whose words carried 
weight. 

“Thorpe had better go out to New York and 
try his luck there. He will have no success in 
Paris.” 

“Why?” Frye asked. 

“Can not say. But I have an idea that he has 
trodden on the corns of some of the Veiled Beings 
who have power to make or mar such as he ; and 
if so, the gods themselves could not save him. 
Are you a friend of his, Garvie?” 

“Yes, I have always had a liking for the boy.” 

“Then the best thing you can do is to persuade 
him to go home, and start afresh. Coming, De 
Fougeres. Ta, ta.” 

The two men walked away, leaving Frye and 
Garvie alone. 

“What did he mean?” asked Garvie, troubled. 


107 


GARVIE’S model 


Frye shrugged his shoulders. ‘‘He knows 
more than he intends to say, I fancy. There is 
probably some one whom he cannot offend by 
speaking out.” 

Both men sat in silence, considering the matter. 
It was Garvie who spoke first, “It cannot be ac- 
cident when the same thing happened last year. 
Have you any theory as to who is at the bottom 
of the affair ?” he asked. 

The answer came in one word, prompt and un- 
compromising, “Britski. I know that he took 
nearly all of Thorpe’s last summer work in Nor- 
mandy, small work, I mean.” 

“What has that to do with it?” Garvie asked 
with a cynical eye on his just arrived omelette an 
rhuni, as though even that might disappoint him. 

“I have noticed that once he regularly takes a 
young fellow’s smaller work, that man never gets 
in a position to ask big prices.” 

Garvie pondered this problem a moment before 
saying, “But surely it would pay him to push the 
man whose work he has bought.” 

“So I should have supposed, but it does not 
seem to be the case. He does push for all he is 
worth, and more, the man whose big Salon picture 
he buys. I know that. He is pretty deep, that 
little Hungarian, Pole, Jew — whatever he is.” 

As Frye spoke he rose and Garvie said, “Wait 
a bit, and I will come along with you. I must 
look up the poor devil, though I doubt if he wel- 

io8 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


comes me. But, see here, how did you hear of his 
bad luck?’’ 

‘T met that Californian boy, Howe, as I came 
along, just now. Their studios are next to each 
other, you know. He said that yesterday they 
went in together, and Thorpe found the notice in 
the concierge’s den. He just read it and seemed 
dazed for a moment, then laughed and said, ‘Well, 
I am going to sell my traps, buy a van, and start 
as a travelling photographer. Like to come ?’ and 
he went off to his room.” 

“Poor devil!” 

Together the friends threaded one or two of 
the old, winding streets of the Quarter, before 
they stopped at a door in the Rue Monsieur-le- 
Prince. 

“Coming up?” Garvie asked. 

“No. I always thought Job might have pre- 
ferred his friends one at a time. You can let me 
know to-morrow in what humour you find him.” 

But this Garvie was not destined to do, for the 
concierge, less ferocious than most of his kind, 
recognizing him as a frequent visitor, poked his 
head out of his dark little room and asked, “You 
seek Monsieur Thorpe, Monsieur?” 

“Yes, he is at home?” 

“Ah, that he will never be again, for, look you, 
to-day he brings in a man who buys his furniture. 
Then he stows away his canvasses in Monsieur 
Howe’s studio, takes his poor little trunk and 
drives off. Oh yes, he paid me, he was not bad, 

109 


GARVIE^S MODEL 


le petit Thorpe, not like some of those rapins.** 

As the wizened old man talked, Garvie stood 
thinking. So then it was despair absolute that 
had conquered, cutting this fellow-countryman 
off from the future of chosen career, friendship, 
perhaps love itself. Surely there must have been 
some dark, unknown force at work to thus isolate 
a man from all that he valued. 

As he stood outside the dingy apartment house, 
realizing his helplessness to do anything more, 
and yet hesitating to go back to his own affairs, a 
sudden remembrance of Julia Praed’s portrait 
stirred him to fresh dismay. He had recom- 
mended Thorpe to them, had made himself per- 
sonally responsible for him, and with a result at 
which Mr. Praed had a right to be seriously an- 
noyed. 

Confound the fellow and his unreliable hu- 
mours. He was as trying to have to do with as 
Virginie herself. Virginie! And now an idea 
came that caused him to stand and stare so fixedly 
at a blanchisserie that a visible flutter spread 
among the young women behind the window 
panes. 

Virginie! It was this morning that she had 
been in such hurry to go. It was this morning 
that Thorpe had driven off from his studio. Was 
is possible that a mere sordid artist and model 
intrigue had been made such a source of discom- 
fort to him? And Sylvia? Garvie muttered some 
unpleasant word, recalling a glimpse of the girl's 


no 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


face as she smiled up at Thorpe on that Fontaine- 
bleau day, and thinking of what she might soon 
hear as idle gossip. 

But she should never hear it through him, he 
vowed to himself. 

Now his evident duty was to go to the Praeds 
and express his regret that his second-hand phil- 
anthrophy had led to such annoyance for them — a 
not unusual trick of that cheap article, when we 
indulge at a friend’s expense. 

It did not take long to have himself conveyed 
in a cab across the river to the Avenue Friedland. 
In those more cosmopolitanly fashionable neigh- 
bourhoods the elastic mid-day meal is apt to be 
nearly an hour later than in the purely French 
regions, such as the Quarter, and Garvie found 
the father and daughter at table loitering over 
their coffee. 

His first glance showed him that Mr. Praed’s 
good humor was over-clouded, and Julia’s smile 
anxious ; but the greeting he received was as cor- 
dial as ever. 

‘‘That’s right, Mr. Garvie. Just in time for a 
smoke. Julie here, doesn’t mind it.” Then when 
his visitor was settled, the old man went straight 
to the point, “And so our young painter has 
skipped and left us in the lurch, eh?” 

Garvie did not fancy the words, still he had re- 
solved to eat humble pie if necessary, and tried 
to do so with a good grace. He was assisted in 
this by an appealing glance from the grey eyes at 


III 


GARVIE’S MODEL 


the other end of the table. Like most really pretty 
girls, Julia was twice as charming in her home 
dress, and her outline against the light was al- 
together satisfying to Garvie’s eye. 

‘‘Yes, that is what I came about,’' he answered 
frankly. “I am sorry enough for the poor fellow ; 
but I am deeply annoyed that he should have 
treated you like this, and that I should have been 
the cause of your giving him the commission.” 

“You weren’t the cause of his going off in that 
underhand, sneaky way,” grunted Mr. Praed, 
who even in his ill-humour could not consider 
“old man Garvie’s son” to be in the wrong. “It 
was exactly asBritski warned me — soon as there’s 
anything does not just suit him, he’s off without 
a word, and, ‘you might as well try to catch a will- 
o’-the-wisp,’ says he. He knew him, it seems.” 

“Britski said that, did he ?” Garvie spoke with 
ominous sternness, about to protest, when he 
checked himself. He would know more about the 
business before he attacked Britski ; would know 
if he had any right to defend Thorpe. And so he 
only asked, “How did you hear he had gone ?” 

“I had a note from him this morning, saying he 
was sorry not to finish my portrait, but that he 
was too ill to work and had gone to the country. 
He thanked us very nicely for what he called our 
great kindness to him,” Julia said, simply. 

“Well, I shall be back in town before the Salon 
opens — say the end of April. Then you must let 
me paint your portrait myself. I only doubt if I 

II2 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


can make as good a thing of it as Thorpe was do- 
ing. It would have been a magnificent picture.” 

As he spoke, Garvie was already studying 
Julia with artistic appreciation, through his half- 
closed lids. He was beginning to think that he 
had been a fool to depute so pleasant a task to 
another. Under his gaze, Julia blushed finely, 
but it was her father, who, instantly mollified by 
the offer, answered heartily, ‘‘Not half so good as 
yours will be. Ell bet my boots on that. It 
stands to reason that the men at the head of these 
things must know best. They give your pictures 
a good place, and they kick this young Thorpe 
out, and I, for one, am quite willing to believe 
that it’s all as it should be. Excuse me for a 
moment, Mr. Garvie, I just want to get another 
cigar.” 

As her father walked heavily out of the room, 
Julia, with her chin on her folded hands,* leant 
toward Garvie and asked cautiously, “Don’t you 
really know why he went away, Mr. Garvie ?” 

The latter felt himself in a tight place. He 
wished neither to arouse strong sympathy for the 
absent one nor to imply any hidden blame, for 
either opinion might reach Sylvia and cause her 
fresh distress. 

So he answered in as noncommittal a fashion as 
possible, “I assure you I am completely in the 
dark. Of course I know that he was nervous and 
over anxious about the fate of his Salon pic- 
ture—” 


113 


GARVIE’S MODEL 


He paused, and Julia’s question came low and 
quick, “Does Miss Dorr know?” 

Their meeting eyes acknowledged what their 
words left unsaid. 

“Even that I cannot tell you. Perhaps,” slow- 
ly, as though weighing the question, “you could 
find out and let me know.” 

“Do you think I know her well enough?” 
Julia hesitated. 

“She ought to be told. You could speak to 
Miss Oakes,” Garvie persisted. 

“Very well. Ell try. I will go there this after- 
noon,” Julia acquiesced. She had fallen into the 
habit of acquiescing in Garvie’s suggestions. 
This settled, her mind went back to her own af- 
fairs, as minds have a habit of doing. 

“Did you know that father is going away on 
Friday?” she asked. 

“In search of his castle in the air? And what 
becomes of you ?” 

“I am left in Mrs. Mallock’s charge. Isn’t it 
horrid ?” she said, wrinkling up her face in a de- 
lightful fashion. 

“Well I suppose you could not stay by your- 
self, and if you rule her with a firm hand she may 
not be troublesome. I shall come and see how 
you are getting on before I leave town.” 

“Oh, do !” And a blush and smile emphasized 
her words. 


1 14 


XI 

AT NEUILLY 


J ULIA was as good as her word, and went 
to her friend’s that afternoon. But one 
glance into the white, stricken face 
raised to greet her, with a brave smile, 
told her that her errand was needless, and she 
only stayed for a few minutes of futile talk. 

As she sat bent so steadily over a sketch that re- 
quired to be posted for that evening’s mail, Sylvia 
had in her pocket the letter that that morning — 
how long ago it seemed ! — had smitten down her 
every hope. 

How happy she had been since that sunny day 
at Fontainebleau, with Rupert Thorpe his old ar- 
dent, impetuous self again. How often as she 
worked she had found herself murmuring softly, 

Other heights in other lives, God willing; 

All the gifts from all the heights your own, love. 

Now the words that kept echoing in her mind 
were the bitter phrases of that letter in her pocket. 
It had no beginning, but broke out abruptly: 

“I am writing to say good-bye, for I am leaving 
Paris to-day, and I am not fit to see you again, am 
not worthy of your dear friendship. I have given up 
the fight. M}-- picture is refused at the Salon. I am 

II5 


AT NEUILLY 


leaving art, everything, and going away into outer dark- 
ness. Think as hardly of me as you can, and never 
waste a tear or a regret on me. I am not worth them, 
but I carry with me the vision of your face, as it smiled 
on me last. Ah, the divine bounty of that smile. Good- 
bye, Sylvia! God bless you for all you have been 
to me!” 

All through the day, since the receipt of the 
letter, she had been alone, sticking to her work in 
a dazed, mechanical fashion, receiving Julia with 
a dulled imitation of her usual manner. But 
when, late that evening, Harriett Oakes came 
home from a long expedition, she found her pac- 
ing her little room with the fierce sweep of a 
caged animal. 

‘'Rupert Thorpe has gone away. Read that !’* 
she said, thrusting the open letter on her be- 
wildered friend. She was past self-control or re- 
serve now. 

“What does it mean? Oh Harriett, is it sui- 
cide F'' and with the word, she broke down and 
sobbed herself into a state of exhaustion. 

In grim-faced dismay. Miss Oakes soothed and 
tended her, until Sylvia lay huddled white and 
still on her bed. 

Later on they talked it all over, but with small 
comfort, and the next day. Miss Oakes, whose 
wooden countenance and thirty odd years gave 
her much freedom, went and interviewed Frye, 
and then Garvie. 

The result with both was equally meagre. 
They supposed that Thorpe had got worked up 
into a nervous state of suspense and could not 

Ii6 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


stand the disappointment. He had probably taken 
himself off, for a time, to some cheap artist haunt 
— Grez, or such — and would be sure to turn up 
again after a few weeks of country air had made 
him his old self again. Make enquiries of the 
police? Certainly not. That was a thing which 
none of them had a right to do, at present, and 
which Thorpe was just the fellow to bitterly re- 
sent. Thus, with a marked unanimity, spoke the 
two friends, who, having held council the night 
before, had agreed to keep their mutual theory as 
to Virginie Lapierre’s departure to themselves. 

All the same, Harriett Oakes, who was a 
shrewd woman, with vision undimmed by senti- 
ment, went away with a strong impression that 
Rupert Thorpe's absence was due to some un- 
pleasant scrape. And so Sylvia Dorr was the 
only one of his friends left who felt quite sure 
that he was deserving of sympathy. But what 
was there that she could do or say in his behalf? 
Through sleepless hours she went over every in- 
cident in her poor little idyl, but without any so- 
lution of the problem. And so with tired, white 
face she settled down again to her work, work 
from which Miss Oakes would often try to entice 
her with every excuse for outdoor loitering that 
a Paris April gives. 

Now it was tickets for a good Sunday concert, 
or for a new play; now it was a flower-show. 
Sometimes Sylvia yielded and went, but more 
often she insisted upon sticking to work, either 

117 


AT NEUILLY 


to her researches at the Bibliotheque National, or 
her drawings done at home. 

‘Tt is amazing, the errands that rich friends 
will ask one to run. I suppose it never dawns 
upon them that time can mean money to us poor 
grubbers,’’ growled Harriett one day, when they 
sat economically lunching together at the nearest 
Duval. “Mrs. Shatford, who had months of leis- 
ure and a carriage in Paris, discovers, just as she 
is starting for Sicily, that she cannot be happy 
unless a renaissance silver casket she had picked 
up, is immediately repaired by a cheap and artistic 
workman. Having been fool enough to tell her 
that I had heard of such a one, it is, ‘Oh, my dear 
Harriett, you are such a concentration of energy 
and kindness, that I know you wont mind seeing 
to it for me,’ and there I am, saddled with the 
business and the casket.” 

“What did you do it for?” Sylvia asked list- 
lessly. 

“Because I am an idiot, I suppose. But Mrs. 
Shatford has been good to me, and then the man 
may turn out ‘copy.’ The person who mentioned 
him seemed to think that he was rather a mystery. 
I have his address, somewhere out at Neuillv. 
It is a lovely day, and I have nothing special on 
hand. Let us go home and get the precious 
casket, take a Porte Maillot bus, and after we 
have done the errand, we can go and sit in the 
Bois. I shall be all the better for a look at the 
smart world before my next Transcript letter.” 

ii8 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


“I will go if you like. I did a long morning’s 
work/’ Sylvia agreed in the half-hearted fashion 
that had grown habitual with her. 

They carried out Miss Oakes’s programme, and 
it was still early in the spring afternoon when 
they found themselves exploring one of the quiet, 
featureless Neuilly streets, with its vista of tall 
apartment houses, broken here and there by the 
wall of a villa, with stunted shrubbery of lilacs 
and laburnums, all glorious now with bloom. 
Spring’s annual touch upon city streets is like the 
flowering of a love tale in a life otherwise utterly 
sordid and futile. 

‘'This is the number, but there must be some 
mistake. It is not the place where a workman 
would live,” Miss Oakes said, stopping before a 
high, dilapidated gate, above which a coat of 
arms was still visible. The walls were nearly as 
high as the gate, and what with them and a group 
of plane trees, there was a little to be seen of the 
house. “It is certainly No. 28,” she went on, 
“and perhaps the man is concierge.” 

“Perhaps so, but if you ask my opinion, I 
think it is a private lunatic asylum,” Sylvia said 
with a laugh. 

“If so, one of the patients has just made his 
escape, for the gate is ajar. Come, let us go in.” 

“In spite of the fact that this is evidently the 
first chapter of a dime novel ? What do you think 
we will find? A corpse, a ghost or a lunatic?” 

“A silversmith to mend this tiresome casket, I 

119 


AT NEUILLY 


hope,” Harriett said, leading the way up a tiled 
path much encroached on by a thick undergrowth 
of shrubbery. The flight of steps, the fagade of 
the white house, and the big doorway, all shewed 
that the place had been a comfortable home in its 
day, but all revealed a state of extreme dilapida- 
tion. 

‘This door is ajar, too. Shall we go in ?” Har- 
riett said, her lowered tone revealing a slight 
nervousness. 

“Here’s a bell. Pull it.” 

The rusty wire creaked at the touch, but no bell 
sounded. 

“I am going in,” Miss Oakes said with fresh 
determination. 

The door being pushed open revealed a large 
hall with black and white paved floor, and walls 
from which the frescoed plaster was peeling. 

Of the several doors leading from it, only one 
was open, but a cough and the stir of someone 
moving within, told that one room at least was 
occupied. 

As Harriett turned briskly towards this door, 
Sylvia’s vivid imagination sketched a picture of 
themselves gagged and robbed, perhaps murdered, 
in this place into which they had rashly ventured. 
She would have dearly liked to make for the outer 
door again, but she could not leave her friend 
alone, and so mustered courage to follow her. 

Harriett’s footsteps brought a sudden cessa- 
tion in the low sound of regular movement, as 


120 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


though someone had paused from his work to 
listen, and her sharp knock on the door was fol- 
lowed by a hoarse “Entrez,” or rather “Angtray,” 
in a foreign voice. ‘‘German,” commented Miss 
Oakes to herself as she pushed the door open. 

The peaceful interior revealed to them scattered 
at once any secret fears as to the nest of outlaws. 
The room had evidently been the salon of the vil- 
la, and ran the length of the house, one side being 
taken up with windows that opened into a patch 
of overgrown lawn. At the end nearest the door 
a high embroidery frame stood, like an easel. It 
was filled with a stretch of dingy canvas, on 
which a young woman was engaged in carefully 
arranging odds and ends of old tapestry, which 
she was picking out from a heap on a table be- 
side her. 

In the centre of the room, on a rough, un- 
painted table stood a beautiful object, which as 
far as Sylvia could see, was a wonderfully 
wrought gold pyx of the best renaissance period. 

Before it, elbows on the table, sat a man in a 
white blouse. He seemed to be making measure- 
ments or notes, for he had drawing materials be- 
fore him and pencil in hand. Both man and 
woman were young, and of a heavy blonde type 
that bespoke Alsatian, if not German, origin. 

As the opening door revealed the visitors, the 
two workers stared at them in a surprise, strange- 
ly disproportionate to the cause. 

“What do you wish, Madame?” 

I2I 


AT XELIILLY 


It was tHe woman, who, standing with a bit of 
tapestry in her hand, spoke, with sullen abrupt- 
ness, in French, strongly tinged with a German 
accent. Her dress was a dull blue cotton, such 
as she might have worn in her own village, and 
heavy masses of pale blonde hair hung loosely 
about her face. 

The man had risen and stood by his table, 
staring at them with big, light blue eyes. Miss 
Oakes, feeling that she would like to get through 
with her errand as quickly as possible, unwrapped 
the casket, and advancing towards the man, be- 
gan to explain that having heard of his skill, she 
had brought it to be repaired. He only shook his 
head without looking at the casket, and the 
woman spoke impatiently. 

^‘C^est pas la peine. He understands but a 
word or two of French. We come from beyond 
Strasburg, and we are going back there again 
when we have finished this work. He cannot do 
anything for you.’’ 

“But if you would explain it to him,” persisted 
Harriett, annoyed that she spoke no German. 

^‘C^est pas la peine . Again that ever useful 
phrase. “He has promised to work for only one 
house while we are here in Paris. They would 
keep him forever if he would stay. They want 
him to do so much, but we must go,” and a 
strangely hunted look stirred the stolidity of her 
peasant face. 

During the discussion the friends had advanced 


122 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


somewhat into the room, though with no encour- 
agement from its occupants, who remained 
motionless in their places. 

Sylvia taking no part in the discussion, had 
her interest enough aroused by the unusual in- 
terior to study every detail. 

The large, brightly-lit room was bare of any 
furniture save that of a workshop. At the 
farthest end stood a craftsman’s bench and tools, 
but for what trade she could not make out. In 
a corner lay a heap of odds and ends of old metal 
work. 

She noted the contrast between the long deli- 
cate hands of the man, as he stood with them 
resting on the table — real artist hands — and the 
bovine peasant outline of his face, darkened now 
by an angry mistrust. Before him lay an elabo- 
rate drawing, both in sections and complete, 
which she thought was a copy of the beautiful 
golden pyx, a delight to her eyes. There were 
papers with memoranda of figures scattered 
around, and among these lay an envelope that 
flashed a familiar name on her. 

It was addressed in a French hand to Rupert 
Thorpe at his studio. Rue Monsieur-le-Prince. 
It had evidently been since used to jot down a 
memorandum in pencil. She could not help it; 
she leant forward and taking up the envelope 
read the pencil scrawl — 

''Finish by Saturday. Britski.” 

Turning quickly to the woman, she asked with 

123 


AT NEUILLY 


what composure she could, ‘'Do you know the 
Monsieur Thorpe to whom this is addressed? I 
want very much to see him to-day, and will be 
glad to know where he is. I would give ten 
francs to anyone who told me.’’ 

With a deliberate movement, the man put out 
his hand and silently took the envelope from her, 
holding it carefully in his grasp. 

Startled by this, she drew back towards Har- 
riett, but with her eyes still fixed in questioning 
on the woman. 

The latter shook her head in vigorous denial. 
“We know no one in Paris save the people in 
the shop we work for. That was just a message 
left about work. We know no messieurs. We 
only want to be let alone.” 

The little scene had passed so quickly that Har- 
riett could not understand it, but seeing that Syl- 
via meant to hold her ground and ask more 
questions, and that both man’s and woman’s faces 
grew more forbidding, she took her by the arm 
saying, “Come. Don’t you see they want us to 
go? Bonjour, madame.^* 

This final politeness was only answered by a 
surly grunt. 

Once outside the big iron gate, the friends 
stood still and drew a breath of relief. 

“Why, you look like a ghost.” Harriett pro- 
tested in sudden dismay. “What was on the 
envelope ?” 

“It was an old envelope addressed to Rupert 
124 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Thorpe, with an order scribbled on it by Britski. 
Oh Harriett, what does it mean?’^ 

Now Miss Oakes had made up her mind that 
it would be poor friendship to encourage Sylvia 
in any fanciful theories as to Thorpe’s disappear- 
ance. The sooner she left off worrying about 
him, the better it would be. So now she ans- 
wered with cheerful certainty, “Mean ? Why, 
that these queer people work for Britski, patch 
up antiques, and all that sort of thing I suppose. 
You know that Mr. Thorpe has had a good deal 
to do with him. He has probably thrown down 
an empty envelope in the shop, which Britski has 
picked up to write a message on. That is plain 
enough.” 

“Yes, but,” Sylvia persisted, “why should 
these people have been so sulky ? It almost seemed 
as though they were frightened of us, or angry at 
our coming.” 

“Britski has probably cautioned them against 
strangers, so as to keep them under his thumb 
and pay them less. They seem like simple country 
people. But we need not trouble ourselves about 
them any more. I have this nuisance of a casket 
still on my hands, worse luck. Come, I am go- 
ing to take you over to that restaurant at the 
Porte Maillot and give you a glass of benedictine. 
You need something,” said Harriett, inwardly 
anathemizing Britski and Thorpe, and the friend 
who had sent her on the errand. 


125 


XII 

ON THE BALCONY 

W ITHIN the first few days after Mr. 

Praed's departure, Garvie kept his 
promise by calling twice on his 
daughter. Each time she was 
out, but after the second visit came a note from 
Julia, the first he had ever had. 

‘‘Characteristic,” he thought as he read it. 
‘‘The writing firm and clear, the words frankly 
to the point.” 

A month ago he would hardly have troubled 
to thus criticize the ordinary little note that asked 
him to come that evening. 

The day had been mild as summer, and instead 
of sitting in the garish red and gold salon, he 
found Julia out in the blue-grey twilight of the 
balcony. She was bare-headed, but a cream- 
coloured cloak hung over her shoulders. 

“DonT you think it's nicer out here?” she asked 
as he took her hand. “I love watching the long 
lines of steady lights and all the little twinkling 
moving ones, and thinking what they mean — life 
all jammed up together, like toys in a Noah's 
ark.” 

“I am afraid you are looking at the philosophic 
126 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


instead of the artistic view of it/’ he said taking 
a chair opposite hers; ‘‘but if you could only see 
the effect of your black hair against the blue street 
vista, you would become an impressionist on the 
spot.” 

Julia’s heart rejoiced that her recent studies 
enabled her to comprehend the latter term. 

“It’s a doubtful compliment,” she said lightly, 
“for impressionist portraits generally seem 
painted as a veil to ugliness.” 

“What wilful misinterpretation,” he protested. 
“But where is the lady who keeps you in order? 
Has she left you to your own devices?” 

“Yes,” and Julia snuggled back comfortably 
into the folds of her cloak, as though appreciating 
the fact. “She was asked to some rather swell 
reception. She nobly urged me to go too, but I 
think she was just as well pleased that I stayed 
at home, and I’m sure I’m glad to be rid of her. 
Now if you will only light a cigarette, it will have 
such a cosy home feeling.” 

Did Julia guess what witching words were 
those last, to come in a clear young voice to a 
man who was beginning to think himself tired of 
a solitary life in a big city ? 

Garvie obeyed with a pleasant warmth at heart. 

“And how are you getting on with the lady?” 
he asked. 

“Oh, she’s just tiresome, that’s all. Her latest 
excitement is a wretched little French count, who 
she says had an American mother, but I don’t be- 


127 


ON THE BALCONY 


lieve it. He must have had a bit more sense if 
he had. He is like a little white rabbit, and 
comes about up to my elbow, but he has had hun- 
dreds of grandfathers.’^ 

“So have we all.” 

“Yes, but she says that his were crusaders, 
dukes, and all that kind of things. He lives 
with three aunts and two grandmothers over in 
a misty old house in the Faubourg St. Germain. 
She took me there.” 

“Now, are you sure that you counted the old 
ladies right?” 

“Oh well, an aunt more or less doesn’t matter. 
The worst is, she put the little atom up to the 
hour I ride in the Bois, so that I have to go a dif- 
ferent road every day. I’d like to trot him out 
for a round-up on Tom’s ranch. Oh dear, I wish 
I were there.” And with a sigh, Julia stretched 
up her arms to clasp her hands behind her head. 

Garvie did not mean to shew his disgust at her 
being pestered in this fashion, so he said lightly, 
“Come now, it will never do to let Mrs. Mallock 
and her satellites make you homesick. Have you 
any idea when your father will be back?” 

“No,” and the girl’s voice sounded no more 
cheerful. “I had a letter this evening, and there’s 
never a word as to when he is coming.” 

“Is he so interested in this collection?” 

“Well, in a way.” She hesitated, and then 
with a forlorn little laugh, broke out, “I believe 
he’s more interested in its owner, this Mademoi- 

128 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


selle de Rostrenan, he talks so much about. His 
latest idea is that, as she has no home when she 
leaves the chateau, it would be nice to ask her to 
come and stay with us. He thinks she would be 
a companion for me and help me to speak French. 
Oh, Mr. Garvie,” leaning forward, “you don’t 
think — do you — ” 

The rising trouble in her voice, stirred Garvie’s 
heart to pity, and he hastened to answer her un- 
finished question with more conviction than he 
felt, “No, certainly not. You must not get such 
bogies into your head. You never did before, 
did you?” 

“At home? Oh no. You see, he used to be 
busy all day in the office or at the mills, or would 
be talking to men.” 

“Out of mischief, in fact. Well, in spite of 
idle hands, we must try to keep him out of mis- 
chief here. This collection is a nuisance. I sup- 
pose he says something about it, doesn’t he?” 

“Oh yes, lots,” she answered listlessly. “Pie 
writes two whole pages about the old castle on a 
river, and the big rooms full of tapestries and 
carved furniture, and all sorts of frumpy old 
rubbish,” she went on, forgetting her recent 
aesthetic studies in her disgust. “He says that, 
as he is buying the whole lot, it will take him 
some time to have it catalogued, and that he 
means to stay and see it done, though Britski 
didn’t think it necessary.” 

Garvie laughed. “It strikes me that the friend- 


129 


ON THE BALCONY 


less orphan is likely to have a nice little nest-egg, 
though Britski is sure to get his pickings in the 
way of commission. I suppose Britski is there?” 

“No, there seems to be only the orphan.” 

“By-the-bye, what did you say her name was?” 

“Mademoiselle de Rostrenan.” 

“I seem to have heard the name before. And 
where is the abode of the sleeping beauty?” 

“It’s all down in father’s letter. If you will 
come in, I’ll get it for you,” and Julia made a 
movement to rise. 

Garvie put out a protesting hand, saying, “Oh 
no, please. Don’t break the spell of the night 
for any such mere matter of detail. You can 
tell me by-and-by.” Then as Julia settled her- 
self again, “I must confess that my curiosity is 
stirred by the romance of the remote chateau and 
its orphan chatelaine. Your father does not look 
much like a knight errant.” 

“Poor father!” Julia laughed sweetly. Then, 
“Oh, I remember the name of the place, now*. 
The Chateau of Rosbraz, near Tremalo, Finistere, 
and father was staying at an inn, the Lion d’Or.” 

Garvie gave a slow whistle of astonishment. 
“And that same Lion d’Or at Tremalo happens 
to be my very destination, when I start, day after 
to-morrow. I have often been there for weeks 
at a time. Tremalo is a village, on the south 
coast of Brittany. It is still ten miles from a 
railway, though I hear that there is to be one there 
next year, which will spoil it. Now it is a bit of 


130 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


the middle ages set down on a river, just where 
it meets the tide. It is a haunt dear to artists, 
though none are likely to be there at this time of 
year. How surprised your father will be to see 
me. I shall be able to keep an eye on him, and 
to let you know how things go. You will like 
that, won’t you?” 

He was leaning forward now towards the out- 
line, dark against the blue twilight. 

“Oh, it would be a comfort. Somehow I feel 
so lonely. But are you going to be away very 
long?” she asked naively. 

Garvie’s intention improvised itself as he spoke. 
“I promise to return at once, if I can beguile Mr. 
Praed away, minus the orphan.” Then, with a 
sudden inspiration, “But look here, I have a bet- 
ter idea. Why not come and keep an eye on him 
3^ourself ?” 

The kindly dusk hid Julia’s tremour at the 
ardour of his tone, though there was a little catch 
of her breath before she answered, “But however 
should I get there? I couldn’t be ready to go 
with you, I suppose — ” 

“No, and that might bring Mrs. Mallock down 
upon us as a chaperon,” Garvie said, checking 
the simple-minded suggestion, with hasty con- 
scientiousness. “But the journey is really quite 
simple. I will write out the places and hours 
for you, and your maid can manage the rest, all 
right.” 

131 


ON THE BALCONY 


"‘Oh, thank you/’ Julia breathed, relieved to 
have her mistake covered. 

‘‘You would be delighted with Tremalo,” Gar- 
vie went on, much taken with his scheme. “You 
could not have a better introduction to old-world 
ways. Why, there are paths over the hillsides 
where the wooden sabots of generations have 
worn foot prints in the solid granite, and out on 
the lonely heaths one comes on a great Druidic 
shaft or dolmen — ” 

“Dolmen.” Julia said puzzled. “I thought 
that was an old lady’s cape, trimmed with beads.” 

“It is a Druid’s grave as well, or perhaps an old 
lady Druidess ; That is the country of the Druids, 
you know.” 

“Is it?” Julia said, with a mental note that 
here was a new subject for her to master. She 
would go to Galignani’s tomorrow morning and 
see what books she could get about Brittany. 

“By-the-by, how would you like to be painted 
as a Druid priestess ? You would have your hair 
hanging loose, and wear a long white robe with 
one arm and shoulder bare, while you hold up a 
golden sickle.” 

Mrs. Mallock’s sneers about artists and models 
bore fruit now in a little fit of prudish pride. 

“Oh, I don’t think I’d like it at all,” Julia said 
hastily. 

“No, perhaps you are not the priestess type. 
Those Druidesses should be pale, with stern eyes 
used to look on death.” Then with a more per- 


132 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


sonal note, ^‘But perhaps you will let me try an 
outdoor study of you some time while we are 
there. It would get me in touch with you before 
I begin the famous portrait.” 

“If you like,” Julia murmured shyly. “What 
will the hotel be like ?” she asked. 

With somewhat of a shock, Garvie realized that 
this girl he had patronized a short time ago, had 
adroitly turned the subject back into its more 
practical and less personal side. 

She was right, he acknowledged to himself, and 
answered, “You can hardly call it an hotel. It 
is little more than a village inn, but Marie Jeanne 
is an old dear, and as she is used to lady artists, 
she will know how to make you comfortable. I 
doubt if your chef could turn out a better fish 
souMe than she can. But it is getting late, and 
Mrs. Mallock's sense of propriety will receive a 
shock if she finds me here when she returns.” 

As they arose to go in, he said, “I had better 
write out the directions for the journey now, in 
case I do not see you alone again before I go.” 

“Yes, sit there,” she said pointing to an elabo- 
rate and little-used writing-table. Julia was not 
a girl with a bosom-friend correspondence. Gar- 
vie scribbled a few lines and then looked up, 
laughing, at Julia, where she stood watching him, 
her arms resting on the back of a high arm-chair, 
the full cloak of creamy cloth still hanging over 
her shoulders. 

“Be sure you don’t give your dear chaperon a 

133 


ON THE BALCONY 


hint of our scheme, or she might feel it her duty 
to sacrifice herself and come too,” he said. 

“No, she doesn’t,” was the girl’s resolute ans- 
wer, “for I will not pay for her ticket and I’m 
sure she won’t herself. She never happens to 
have change when there is any paying going on.” 

“Wise woman,” Garvie commented. “But 
shall I tell your father that you are coming?” 

Julia pondered for a moment, then with a 
laugh, “No, I think you’d better not. He might 
wire and tell me not to, you know.” 

“Then you will appear, at your own sweet 
will ?” Garvie asked, checking an impulse of pru- 
dence that suggested the possible awkwardness of 
such a descent upon an amorous father. 

The doubt had cleared from Julia’s face. 

“What fun 1” she said. “By-the-by, father must 
think he is settled down there forever, for he says 
he sent to some town and got an auto for going 
to and from the castle. How far is it from the 
inn?” 

“A matter of two or three miles. I have 
tramped it often, though I know it best from the 
water. I used to sail there a good deal one sum- 
mer. If I can get a boat, will you let me sail 
you down ?” 

“To call on the orphan?” she jested. 

“Well, I suppose you had better commence by 
being civil. It would not be wise to oppose 
your father unnecessarily,” Garvie warned her. 


134 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


He was beginning to foresee complications in 
their improvised scheme. 

But Julia was without doubts. ‘‘Oh, he’ll be 
all right as soon as I get there,” she said airily. 

“Well, I must be off,” he said and this time he 
did really take himself away, having no desire to 
cause the enemy, in the person of Mrs. Mallock, 
to blaspheme. 

It was the last talk they had before his depart- 
ure, for, when he came again, he found Mrs. Mal- 
lock very much in possession. However, Julia’s 
smiling au revoir was comfort enough, and was 
answered by a brief pressure of her hand. 

Garvie had not yet settled with his own mind 
that he wanted to marry Gabriel Praed’s daughter, 
but he was sure that it would be very pleasant to 
walk with her among the Breton chestnut woods 
and orchards, to see her proud smile at the naive 
display of some newly acquired knowledge, to feel 
the pride of a teacher in a quick pupil. 

It was a dangerous role that he was choosing 
for himself. 


135 


XIII 

VILLA MARIPOSA 

I T was a fine Sunday morning, one of those 
spring days when all Paris turns out into 
the streets. The rich go to the races, the 
poor go to the parks, to Versailles and St. 
Cloud. 

Sylvia Dorr was not holiday making, for Ma- 
dame Marcelle had given her a commission that 
required haste. The designs for a bride’s and 
bridemaids’ dresses, were to be sent to America 
for approval, and must be ready for the next day’s 
mail. Unfortunately, Sylvia had mislaid some 
directions, and without them was at a complete 
loss. 

“What ever shall I do?” she said, brushing 
back the loose hair from her forehead, as she 
looked up at Miss Oakes, who had just come in 
from early church. By a queer contrast, that 
unemotional person delighted in the ornate ritual 
of a high Episcopal church. 

“Let me take a note to her,” the latter sug- 
gested. 

“But it is Sunday, and she will be out of town. 
She always is,” was the dejected answer. 

“Oh yes, I remember hearing what a pretty 

136 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


villa she has at Bas Meudon. Villa Mariposa was 
the name, I think. Let us go there. You have 
got to come out to lunch somewhere, for I am 
not going to pay Hotel Cleveland prices on a fine 
Sunday, and it won’t take so very long.” 

‘'Only half the day, and the trams and trains 
will be so crowded;” but even as she protested, 
Sylvia put aside her work to get ready. Perhaps 
she, like other tired toilers, craved the fresher 
air of the suburbs, better substitutes for the real 
country in Paris than elsewhere. 

She was right. The trams were crowded, and 
the friends underwent many delays before, still 
in the crowd, they descended at the noisy little 
station. 

“You might as well question a mad dog, as to 
where somebody lived, as ask those men,” Har- 
riett said, with a contemptuous scowl at the per- 
spiring and irate officials. “We must have our 
dejeuner, so let us find the quietest restaurant 
there is, and then we can ask the waiter about the 
house.” 

The quietest restaurant might have been 
quieter, but this was not their first Sunday excur- 
sion, and, knowing what to expect, they settled 
themselves at a white-clothed table in a little gar- 
den full of other such. A month later it would 
all be dusty and sordid enough, but to-day the 
lilac-bushes were towers of fragrance, and the 
tiny leaves on the clipped lime trees glistened like 
green gold. Around them was a motley crowd 


137 


VILLA MARIPOSA 


of students and their female following, of noisy 
family parties, of blue-coated soldiers, but un- 
disturbed they finished their omelette, and hifteck- 
au-pommes. 

Miss Oakes’s keen eyes studied her surround- 
ings as possible copy, but Sylvia turned from 
them with a tired longing for solitude. 

“How I hate it all,” she said wearily, her eyes 
fixed in languid distaste on a stout female bicy- 
clist in bloomers and white jersey. “It seems such 
a pity that I was made without any Bohemian in- 
stincts. They would have come in so useful.” 

“You do very well as you are. Look at that 
tiny old peasant woman in cap and shawl. How 
bewildered she seems and how kind her soldier 
son is to her,” Harriett commented. 

As the pale little waiter scudded up with their 
cheese, Sylvia laughed. “If the men at the station 
were mad dogs, your waiter is a hunted hare,” 
she said. 

All the same, when he brought their coffee, he 
was able to tell them that the Villa Mariposa was 
“a little walk of a quarter of an hour up the hill at 
the meeting of two roads. They could not miss 
it.” 

“Madame Marcelle lives there?” 

“No, it is Madame Britski. Monsieur and 
Madame Britski; people most amiable and dis- 
tinguished.” It was a pity they were so much in 
Paris, but to-day they were certainly at home, 

138 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


and had company, he knew, for his wife was 
helping in the kitchen. 

There was a pause of perplexity between the 
friends as he rushed off to answer five different 
calls, a pause which Harriett was the first to break 
with the oracular remark, ‘T am not surprised. 
It is strange we did not guess it long ago.” 

‘^But what does it mean?” Sylvia wondered, 
nervously. 

‘‘Mean? Why only another of their trade 
secrets, of course. I suppose they could not so 
well recommend strangers to each other if they 
were known to be husband and wife. It must be 
nice, too, to step into a fresh name with your best 
clothes, and leave the workday one with your 
workday worries. Lots of the London lady 
dressmakers do it, I have heard.” Harriett was 
pursuing her policy of discouraging Sylvia’s mis- 
trust until a favourable time should come for her 
to make a fresh start without Madame Marcelle’s 
help. Her own struggle with life had taught her 
to walk warily. 

The anxious shadow did not lift from Syl- 
via’s face as she murmured, ‘T wonder, though, 
that she never told me.” 

“She knows that there are no half-and-half 
measures possible with any secret,” said Harriett, 
leading the way out. 

There was no mistaking the road, for there 
was only one that wound up a sloping hill, bor- 
dered by every eccentricity of outdoor restaurants. 


139 


VILLA MARIPOSA 


These gradually gave place to villas, which, as 
they advanced, became more imposing in style and 
more secluded in fresh greenery. 

‘Tdere is the place. ‘Villa Mariposa’ is on the 
gate,” said Harriett as they came to a branching 
of the roads. The three cornered bit of land was 
shut in by a laurel hedge, but through the gate 
they could see beyond the shrubbery an open lawn 
set with flower-beds, and a pretty white villa of 
Renaissance design. 

As Harriett laid her hand on the gate, Sylvia 
caught her arm saying, “Do you think she will 
mind our coming? You know the waiter said 
that she had people there.” 

“But I thought you really wanted to speak to 
her? We can ask for her at the door, and if she 
doesn’t choose to see us, she need not. It is on 
her own business, after all. Look here, you write 
a line on your card, saying what you came for. 
That will make it simpler.” 

This was done, and the two walked up the path 
that ran between borders of bright anemones and 
ranunculus, backed by radiant banks of azalea 
bloom. 

“One can trace Britski’s hand in the taste of 
everything,” commented Harriett, “No glass 
balls or cheap statuary here. Look at that dear 
terrace along the front of the house, what an 
Italian air it has. Those Lombardy poplars are 
as effective as cypress. I wonder if those two 


140 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


have any children. They should be dowered with 
the culte of beauty, at any rate.” 

Sylvia made no answer. She had not plucked 
up spirits since the first mention of Britski’s name. 

“Who shall we ask for?” Harriett murmured 
as they climbed the terrace steps. A burst of 
noisy voices came to them from the open win- 
dows of a room where they saw people seated 
at table. 

“Madame Marcelle. It is the only name I 
know her by,” Sylvia decided. 

At their demand, the flurried man-servant 
grinned. “Madame Marcelle in Paris is Madame 
Britski at Meudon. I doubt if she sees any one 
on business, but I can ask,” and he led them into 
a small room that seemed half library, half 
boudoir. 

Here the traces of a cultured taste were as 
visible as outdoors. The scheme of colouring 
was subtle, the ornaments and pictures few, but 
each perfect of its kind. 

Miss Oakes took it all in with hef usual quick 
interest. “Heavens, what a buhl secretaire. It 
might have belonged to Marie Antoinette herself. 
Look, Sylvia.” 

No response coming, she turned to find Sylvia 
staring up at a small picture. 

“What is it?” her friend asked, going across 
to her. 

She saw a golden sunset sky, dusky green 
141 


VILLA MARIPOSA 


meadows by a river where nymphs were bathing. 
It did not need the signature to tell anyone 
learned in French galleries that this was a Corot. 

‘Taney a picture-dealer keeping a Corot in his 
wife’s sitting-room. There is something grand in 
it,” Harriett exclaimed. “But whatever is the 
matter?” she asked as she saw the pale dismay in 
Sylvia’s face. 

‘Tt is not a Corot,” came the protest in a hur- 
ried whisper. “Rupert Thorpe painted it, as a 
joke, that day we went out to Ville d’Avray. He 
said he meant to imitate every one of the Barbi- 
zon painters, one after the other, to see if he could 
not be successful with something.” 

“Are you sure this is it?” 

“Yes, look at that dab of vermilion in the cor- 
ner. I put that in myself. But he signed it — 
oh, I know he signed it,” she said wildly. 

“Hush, someone is coming.” 

There was a rustling of silk, a waft of scent, 
and Madame Marcelle glided in, smiling and 
comely. 

No longer clad in her business panoply of shin- 
ing black satin, she looked five years younger in 
a wonderful costume of a pearly tissue that veiled 
a green matching the young leaves on the lime 
trees outside. 

Here and there a Cashmere embroidery of white 
and green iris outlined her draperies, and a string 
of pearls at her neck brought out the rosy warmth 


142 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


of her skin, the glow of auburn hair, evidently 
free from tinting. 

The triumph of a woman of over thirty, as she 
faced such a figure in her glass, was still in her 
eyes and smile. 

All the same, at first sound of the deep voice, 
Sylvia said to herself with a little shiver, “Oh, 
dear ! She is vexed at our coming.’’ 

There was however no sign of such a feeling 
in her effusive greeting. “Ah, dear mesdemoi- 
selles; but it is wonderful that you should have 
found me out in my little nest among the trees. 
Do tell me how you were clever enough to do it,” 
and her insistent eyes demanded an answer to the 
gay words. 

Sylvia explained with characteristic directness, 
that Miss Oakes, having an idea that Madame 
Marcelle lived at Bas Meudon, they had come on 
the chance of finding her, and of having the trous- 
seau difficulties settled. “Of course we did not 
guess until we enquired for you that you were 
known as Madame Britski,” she explained. 

“I am Madame Britski,” came the brusque 
words, with a quick and angry flush. 

“Of course,” murmured Sylvia, dismayed at the 
effect of her speech. Even as she spoke, the smile 
was again donned, and the gay voice sounded. 

“Thousands of times have I been about to tell 
you of my home life, dear child, but you know 
how it is — ” with a shrug of her shoulders. “You 


143 


VILLA MARIPOSA 


and I talk for ten minutes — always of business — 
and then it is, ‘Madame Marcelle is wanted,’ for 
this or for that. And now we must settle this 
trousseau matter, I suppose. Let us seat our- 
selves.” 

In a few clear sentences she and Sylvia had dis- 
cussed the doubtful point, and arranged the whole 
affair. 

“Ah, but you have a good head, my child. You 
should be making money in a business like mine,” 
Madame Marcelle said presently. “And now that 
our trousseau is safe, you must let me order you 
some dejeuner. Ours is over, but they can bring 
you a cosy little meal here.” 

“Thanks, madame, but we had our dejeuner at 
the station, and must return to Paris before the 
afternoon crowds,” Sylvia answered. 

Madame’s light protest had little meaning in it, 
and they both rose. “I am delighted that you 
should have found me so cleverly, only remem- 
ber,” came the smiling caution, “that at Boulevard 
Malsherbes I am always Madame Marcelle. It 
is simpler to keep the two things separate, and 
though these friends of mine — ” with an outward 
wave of her hand — “all know, they respect my 
little secret. Then too, none of them are my 
clients. I prefer to have it thus. And so au 
revoir, dear mesdemoiselles.” 

She parted from them at the door with the same 
graceful affability, and turned away to join her 


144 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


guests. These were now scattered in bright-col- 
oured groups about the garden. 

Sylvia hurried on nervously without looking 
to right or left, but her friend took in the Watteau 
scene with critical eyes. 

“The tribes of Israel, with a flavouring of the 
opera,’’ she murmured. “It was not necessary for 
our hostess to say she did not dress them — the 
fact speaks for itself. Look at that tinted Venus 
walking with Britski. His wife would never have 
made that pink costume. Well, the double lives in 
big cities are queer.” 

“Queer enough,” Sylvia assented drearily. 
Then, in alarm, “Oh, dear, Britski is leaving the 
woman and coming towards us. Let us hurry.” 

She would have done so, if Harriett had not 
checked her with a grasp on her arm. “No, we 
cannot do that. Don’t be foolish. He won’t bite 
you.” 

Down a side path, at right angles to the avenue, 
came the master of the house, raising his hat with 
a gentle deference. In his light grey summer 
clothes and Panama hat he had undoubtedly an 
air of distinction. He might have been a Polish 
noble strolling on his ancestral estates rather than 
a Paris bric-a-hrac merchant, enjoying the Sunday 
repose of his suburban villa. 

“Dear lady,” he began to Harriett, “you are 
surely not leaving us without a bite or a sup. If 
you will present me to mademoiselle — ” with an- 

145 


VILLA MARIPOSA 

other bow to Sylvia — ‘1 shall try to persuade 
you.” 

There could be no doubt of the pleasantness of 
his manner, Sylvia acknowledged to herself, as 
after they had declined his offers of driving them 
down to the station, he stood chatting. 

‘T knew your drawings before I had the pleas- 
ure of meeting you,” he said. ‘T tell my wife 
that such work as yours is wasted on her chiffons, 
and that some day I shall try to take you away 
from her to paint me aquarelles. Why do you 
never come with Miss Oakes to visit my galleries ? 
There is stuff worth seeing there sometimes, 
though I have to tear my heart and let the best 
go. Ah, when I am rich that will be a different 
matter. But you will come, will you not ?” 

Sylvia could not but promise. She felt as 
though those velvety black eyes were hypnotising 
her, and it was a relief to find herself on the pub- 
lic road. Monsieur Britski standing at the gate 
watching them. 

‘‘Well, that was all as good as a play.” Miss 
Oakes commented. “How I wish I could write a 
novel. I see so many strange things.” 

“They seem to entertain you.” 

“I think I shall try some day. But come, let us 
catch the three o’clock train.” 


146 


XIV 

STORM SIGNALS 

M ISS OAKES took good care to say 
nothing further to her friend as to 
the Corot picture and her recognition 
of it. She felt sure that Sylvia must 
understand that the mystery of Thorpe's eccen- 
tricities was revealed. To her it seemed quite 
clear that he had been, either willingly or unwil- 
lingly, painting forgeries for Britski, and sore 
and ashamed, had yielded to despair at the news 
of his Salon rejection. 

She was sorry for him, yes ; but sorry as a man 
might be, with a pity mixed with contempt for the 
weakling who had gone under. 

Sylvia, she knew, would regard the culprit far 
otherwise, and she respected her reticence, as she 
generally did. It is strange that more people do 
not discover the moral force imbedded in reticence, 
and strive to attain to it. It is nearly always the 
most reticent of a family group whose opinion 
and wishes are deferred to. 

And so, on the homeward way, the two talked 
in a mere surface fashion, of their day's adven- 
tures, and when they reached the hotel Sylvia 

147 


STORM SIGNALS 

took refuge in her own room, to face her discovery 
in solitude. 

Bitter watches, those, when the heart pleads for 
the dear criminal whom the judgment condemns, 
when the platitudes of right and wrong are re- 
created in travail of spirit as living facts. 

The next morning. Miss Oakes indulged in the 
unusual excitement of a skirmish with her land- 
lady. Ordinarily the most pacific of mortals, she 
had learned in a hard school to stand calmly up 
for her rights, so that when her weekly bill pre- 
sented some unaccountable mistakes she marched 
with a determined air toward Madame Comerie’s 
office. 

White-haired, enormously stout, and yet with 
the remains of a blonde beauty, Madame Com- 
erie’s appearance suggested the probabilities in 
store for her daughter, Madame Marcelle, twenty 
years later. 

If Madame Comerie had never treated Miss 
Oakes to her first or second-floor manner, the two 
had always been on friendly enough terms, and 
now after mutual greeting, Harriett said pleas- 
antly, ‘T came to see about some mistakes in my 
bill, madame. I did not dine at table-d’hote on 
Tuesday.’' 

‘Tt is marked so in Alphonse’s day-book, and I 
have never known him mistaken,” came the firmly 
neutral statement. 

The flicker of warfare shone in Miss Oakes’ 
eyes. ‘‘He is, this time, anyway. I happen to 

148 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


have kept the restaurant account. See, here it is, 
dated.” 

Madame Comerie took the flimsy paper, be- 
stowing upon it a stony stare. “You are appar- 
ently very fond of restaurants, mademoiselle. I 
see that you only dined at home three times last 
week. Usually, my guests appreciate my table 
better.” 

The tone was significant of fault finding, but 
Harriett only answered dryly, “That is no un- 
usual thing. When I am busy I save time by 
dining out. If you will look further down the bill 
you will see a mark at a bottle of wine I did not 
have.” 

The landlady noted the fact, and then fixed an 
accusing gaze on Harriett. “I suppose you have 
had some wine. There is only one other bottle 
charged. My general style of boarders use three 
or even four a week.” 

As Harriett said nothing she took a pen and 
changed the items in question, with accustomed 
swiftness. “There, mademoiselle, the alterations 
you ask for are made, and I congratulate you on 
your economy.” 

“Thank you, madame,” and Harriett walked 
off, with a knowledge that her days in. the Hotel 
Cleveland were numbered. She was evidently not 
intended to stay, and if she persisted in doing so, 
it would be at the risk of further unpleasantness. 

“Of course I can’t be a profitable boarder. I 
only wonder they did not find that out sooner,” 


149 


STORM SIGNALS 


she said to herself, trying to check the doubt that 
there was more underneath. 

She was honestly troubled at adding to Sylvia^s 
worries, but before the friends met at noon, she 
had received a telegram that drove other things 
out of her head. A younger half-brother, all that 
was left to her of family ties, was ill with pneu- 
monia in a hospital in London. 

‘There is plenty of time, for I can not get off 
before the night train. Come and help me pack,” 
she ended, with stiff lips, as she told her news to 
Sylvia. 

“But you need not give up your room ?” Sylvia 
urged, as Harriett dragged out a trunk. 

“I must. Comerie would not keep it for me. I 
was going to tell you that when I went to her 
this morning about those mistakes in the bill, she 
all but told me to go ; said that her boarders were 
not usually so economical. Of course, I know 
I cannot be a paying investment. I do not wonder 
she is tired of me,” she ended with resolute op- 
timism. For all that, the blow struck home. 

Sylvia sitting on the floor beside an open box 
looked up in alarm. “It is not that. It is some 
trick of Britski's, because you took me to Meudon ; 
and now I shall be here all alone,” she said with 
certainty; 

Harriett, working quickly as she talked, said, 
“I.ook here. YouVe got nervous about it all, and 
I think you had better move. It is no such se- 
rious matter. Go to see Miss Cole and find out 

150 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


if you can get a room where she lives. You need 
not quarrel over it. Just say you want to join a 
friend.’’ 

“But I cannot ; that is, until I get some money. 
Madame Marcelle has not paid me for a month, 
which isn’t a bit like her. Then she persuaded me 
to take that grey dress at half-price, when it was 
returned. You remember.” 

Yes. Harriett remembered that it was for the 
day at Fontainebleau that Sylvia had got the 
dainty spring dress. 

“So that makes less owing to me than there 
would be. But when my home money comes I 
will be all right.” 

She leant over the trunk, in silence for a mo- 
ment before she went on, in a lower voice : 

“And if I leave here, how could Mr. Thorpe 
find me if he ever came back?” 

A sob was smothered in the depths of the 
trunk. 

Harriett actually paused a moment in her work 
to protest earnestly, “Sylvia you must not expect 
that. Don’t you see — ” 

“Oh yes, I see, well enough, that you all think 
him worthless. No one but me feels that he must 
be the victim of some trickery that has driven 
him to despair, perhaps to suicide. Who is to say 
that he has not been murdered?” 

The last words came in an awed whisper, as 
Sylvia knelt upright, her head thrown back to 
gaze at her friend with wide, desolate eyes. 

151 


STORM SIGNALS 


‘‘Murdered! Whatever put such an idea into 
your head? What should he be murdered for?” 

“He may have threatened to reveal some 
knavery ? Who knows ? I keep thinking of that 
out-of-the-way house at Neuilly — those queer peo- 
ple who were frightened at our coming. At night 
I see the man's long fingers.” She shuddered, 
and hid her face in her hands. 

“You poor child! You will be ill if you en- 
courage such fancies,” Harriett urged in genuine 
distress. “Why, if there were the slightest pos- 
sibility of anything wrong, would not Mr. Garvie, 
who knows Paris so well, have taken alarm ?” 

“I don't know about anyone else,” Sylvia sob- 
bed; “I only know that I am frightened, fright- 
ened” 

“I hate leaving you,” Harriett murmured. 

“Oh, I am selfish to be bothering you with my 
affairs now,” Sylvia said, with a fight for her lost 
self-control. 

“That is all right. I have plenty of time. 
Then you won't move while I am away ?” 

“No,” came the determined answer. 

“Well then, the next best thing you can do is 
to get more change in your work. You might as 
well be connected altogether with American 
houses. I think they would suit you better than 
French people.” 

This was Harriett’s guarded way of advising 
a gradual break with Madame Marcelle. 

“I am sure they would,” Sylvia agreed. . “And 


152 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


I daresay the Chiffons editor in New York would 
take my sketches regularly if I asked him. He 
has always praised them.” 

‘‘Yes, do. Nothing makes you so independent 
as having other strings to your bow. Attend to 
that, and lie low until I come back.” Her voice 
shook at the words, and the uncertainty behind 
them of life and death. “And then we will be off 
to the country.” 

The friends parted at the Gare du Nord, with 
as cheerful farewell as they might. 

“Be sure to go and see Miss Praed soon,” was 
one of Harriett's last mandates. This Sylvia had 
no chance to do, for the next morning, as she sat 
over her drawing-board, Julia appeared. 

“I've come to say good-bye,” she announced 
cheerily. 

“And where are you going?” Sylvia asked, as 
one left on a desert island. 

“To Arcadia — at least so Mr. Garvie says,” 
and with the words, Julia blushed finely, as their 
possible meaning dawned upon her. 

She hurried on to give an enthusiastic sketch 
of her plan, leaving out, as in duty bound, the 
object of her unheralded descent upon a parent 
suspected of frivolity. 

“Too bad,” she said pleasantly, when Sylvia 
told of Miss Oakes's departure, “and you are all 
alone ? Look here. Why not come with me ? It 
would do you good, for you are looking worn to 
death, and it would be such a favour to me. My 


153 


STORM SIGNALS 


maid has struck, and says she always gets ill 
when she leaves Paris. I’ll have to go alone, and 
goodness knows if I ever get there. I know so 
little about French travelling. Of course, when 
you come to oblige me, I shall pay the expenses. 
You wouldn’t mind that — ” she pleaded bashfully. 

For the moment the vision of 

Green days in forest 
And blue days at sea 

came to Sylvia with a great temptation, and then 
she remembered her empty purse, the work that 
must fill it, and, more than all, the watch she was 
keeping. 

‘T should not mind anything you wanted to do,” 
she said, with a wistful smile, ‘Tut it is no use 
this time, for I cannot go. I should love to,” she 
added. 

Julia shook her head in disgust. ‘T feel as 
though some anarchist would be perfectly justified 
in shooting such an odiously prosperous person as 
myself. I’m sure I shouldn’t blame him. Here 
you are, as pale and as tired as a ghost.” 

“Whatever have ghosts to tire them?” Sylvia 
put in. 

“Oh well, I only meant that they are said to be 
pale. I never saw one, you know. But, as I say, 
here you are, looking worn out, and yet you must 
keep working away, while I go skipping off to 
enjoy myself ; at least, perhaps I shall,” and again 
she blushed at fear of Sylvia thinking that meet- 
ing Garvie was the anticipated enjoyment. 


154 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Sylvia laughed softly. ‘‘Fortunately there are 
no anarchists in Brittany; at least, none that I 
ever heard of, so you can go in peace, if you prom- 
ise to come back again.’’ 

The words were sweetly said, and Julia kissed 
her, her heart swelling with a sympathy she could 
not express. Who but the nearest could condole 
with a girl whose lover had, apparently of his own 
free will, vanished into space ? 

Something of the day’s brightness seemed to 
follow Julia, leaving the little room dull and drea- 
ry. Sylvia might have been cheered, as she bent 
over her drawing, could she have known of the 
amiable letter from Mr. Stratton, the publisher, 
that was burning a hole in Julia’s pocket. He 
wrote that, having noticed the quality of 
Miss Dorr’s recent article in the Era, he 
thought her book would probably be well 
worth considering, but that, as he expected to be 
in Paris within the month, he would wait to 
look into the matter personally. He should lose no 
time in calling on Miss Praed and renewing an ac- 
quaintance of which he had kept so pleasant a 
memory. 

“Oh dear,” said Miss Julia at this, with a little 
guilty giggle. 


155 


XV 

AT THE LION D’OR 

T he triangular Place that formed the 
centre of life in Tremalo village lay 
drowsing in the afternoon sunshine. 
To-day there was no stir of market, no 
horse fair or conscription. The school-children 
had scattered an hour ago, with a great clattering 
of sabots. It was not yet the supper hour when 
they would gather to sit on the door-steps, with 
their bowls of cabbage soup on their knees. 

The highway ran along one side of the Place, 
down to its narrow end, where the old, grey 
bridge crossed the river. Facing this, up the slope 
of uneven stone pavement, stood the square, white 
Lion D’Or, flanked by its untidy stable yard, and 
edged with its green benches and little painted 
iron tables. 

Not condescending to the mistletoe-bush sign 
of the humbler inn, the name Hotel du Lion D'Or 
ran across its front, in large black letters. 

A sordid looking building, its exterior gave the 
stranger no hint of the solid comfort to be found 
indoors, but commercial travellers, who are good 
judges of comfort, pressed their journeys to get 
a Sunday dinner at Tremalo, and more than one 

156 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


artist, now fashionable, remembered the days 
when he had lived there on the fat of the land, 
and on trust until the money came. 

Its presiding genius stood at the door, a stab 
wart woman of unusual bulk and fairness for a 
Breton. She wore the plain black cashmere dress 
and little white net cap, a costume marking a 
social grade higher than the peasant woman, and 
yet not that of the lady who wears a hat; but 
such marks of caste are fast passing from the 
land. 

Her smile was beaming, but her bright blue 
eyes had a snap that gave warning of hidden 
forces, and her great shoulders and arms revealed 
a masculine power. Standing there, a picture of 
reposeful strength, she saw what she had been 
waiting for, as the courier’s cart a three-seated 
open wagon, rattled up to the door. 

‘‘Here is one passenger — an Anglais, Hardly 
an artist at this season, and so a fisherman,” she 
thought to herself, as she called in deep tones to 
the driver — “And what have you brought me 
to-day, Alain? That carpet from Lorient, I trust.” 

“He has brought you me, Marie Jeanne,” came 
a cheerful voice, as the stranger jumped down 
from the front seat. 

''Dame! Monsieur Garvie! And what do you 
here now, when the Salon is about to open, and 
everyone is in Paris ?” 

“There is plenty of time for that. I have come 
to be fed up with coquilles de St, Jacques and 


157 


AT THE LION D^OR 


fresh sardines, and to get a breath of country air.’’ 

Marie Jeanne grasped his hand with a benevo- 
lent grip of iron. ‘‘Ah, Monsieur Gar vie, but it is 
good to see an old friend like you again. I am 
proud when the strangers make a fuss over your 
panel on the dining-room wall — Lonic and her 
pups beside Monsieur Smith’s picture of St 
Corentin stopping the flood at Donarnenez — what 
was it he called it? ‘The city of d’Is.’ Yes, you 
shall have sardines and lobsters at will. And are 
you come to make a picture or to divert your- 
self?” 

“To divert myself, Marie Jeanne, if it is diver- 
sion to wade between the second and third mill, 
after a salmon that remains so near and yet so 
far. No artists here now, I suppose?” 

“Ah no, monsieur. Even M’sieur Robson only 
tarried to finish his picture of snow on the landes 
up by the big stone; for we had snow this year, 
lying white for a week. It is ten years since it 
came last.” 

“Ah, I heard of his picture. Took it to Lon- 
don, didn’t he? ‘A lost battle;’ corpses, eh, and 
that kind of thing.” 

“Yes, he had young Joseph lying up there on 
a sheet for weeks, with blood smeared on his face 
and clothes, so that it gave one a nightmare. A 
Chouan, he called him. Those were the men who 
fought here a hundred years ago. Why people 
in London and Paris should want to look at such 
horrors puzzles me. He was the last to leave, but, 

158 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


although the artists are gone, there is an Ameri- 
can gentleman here for you to talk to; that is to 
say, he may be a gentleman, or he may, as Alain 
says, be only one of those men who buy old 
things, a Jew perhaps/^ 

Garvie knew that in these days to be called a 
Jew in the depths of Catholic Brittany, meant an 
unpleasant time, and decided that his advent might 
be a fortunate one for Mr. Praed. 

‘‘And what makes Alain say that?” he asked. 

“Well, he is strange, you see. He does not 
fish, or paint, but he seems to mean to stay, for 
he has got an automobile over from Lorient, and 
is always off down the river in it. They say that 
he goes to the Chateau at Rosbraz, and the folks 
there are Jews, more’s the pity. Jews in place 
of the Rostrenans.” 

Garvie checked himself in the act of protesting 
that no strangers were yet at the chateau. It was 
not his business to talk about matters that Mr. 
Praed had kept secret, but he meant to get at all 
Marie Jeanne’s information. 

“When did these strangers come? The Ros- 
trenans still lived there when I was last in the 
pays/' 

Marie Jeanne crossed her arms, and, leaning 
against the door post settled down for a gossip. 
“Yes, there was the old count then. But two 
years ago he died. His son, you see, had married 
in Algeria where his wife owned vineyards, that 
brought in money, and he chose to stay there and 

159 


AT THE LION D’OR 


let the manoir — ah, the pity — to people from 
Paris, who, the Rosbraz folk say, come and go, 
now one, now another, never the same long. 
Their servants are foreign, and they talk but little 
in the country.” 

Garvie rapidly digested this information, which 
fitted in well enough with his suspicions, though 
he had almost doubted that Britski could venture 
so far as a sham family at Rosbraz. 

‘‘And this American of yours — what is his 
name ?” 

“It’s not so queer as some — Praed; that is 
simple enough. He seems harmless, though it is 
not easy to tell, when he speaks neither French 
nor Breton.” 

Garvie saw that it was time to cast the mantle 
of his friendship over the stranger in the land. 
Marie Jeanne would have calmly accepted the 
weirdest artist freak, but a middle-aged foreigner 
without a hobby suggested a flight from justice. 

“Yes, he is harmless, Marie Jeanne. He is a 
friend of mine from America, where he knew my 
father. He told me in Paris that he was coming 
to this neighborhood to see about buying some old 
furniture in a chateau, Rosbraz I suppose. He is 
a good soul, and you must do your best for him,” 
he added, smiling. 

Marie Jeanne acquiesced as she generally did in 
the demands of her favourites. “Of course, as 
you wish it M’sieur Garvie. But it is strange 
enough to me. Have you, then, no good, new 

i6o 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


beds and chests and pottery in America that you 
must come here to buy old ones, often when they 
are shabby ? It seems a pity. However, it is not 
my affair. There are good fresh soles for your 
dinner, and to-morrow I shall give you a houiU 
leahaise for lunch. Those are the things that 
really matter,” and her shoulders shook in a com- 
fortable laugh. 

“You are a true philosopher, Marie Jeanne. 
And here comes Mr. Praed,” Garvie added, as a 
familiar figure turned into the Place from the 
river road. “Jove! His country dress makes 
him a younger looking man than I thought. In 
spite of the grey locks he might win the heart of 
the aristocratic orphan,” he commented, watching 
the spare, sturdy figure in well-fitting tweeds, 
coming up to the inn door. “Doubt if he’s any 
too pleased to see me,” was his thought as Mr. 
Praed look up and recognized him, his first stare 
of amazement darkening into a shadow of sus- 
picion. 

“How do you do ?” Garvie hastened to call out. 
“Don’t look so amazed. Marie Jeanne is an old 
friend, and Tremalo is a haunt of my student 
days.” 

At the words, Mr, Praed’s face cleared, and 
he took Garvie’s hand with all his old heartiness. 
“This back-of-beyond region, where the people 
dress like in an opera bouffe, and speak a worse 
lingo than French? Well, I never should have 
thought it, though I’m pleased enough to have you 

i6i 


AT THE LION D’OR 

here. There are a dozen things Tm dying to 
make this good lady understand. Not that she 
isn’t most liberal in her feeding, but I'd prefer 
some of those eatables she gives me at eleven, for 
a good sensible eight o’clock breakfast; a beef- 
steak, and some of those eggs in a pan. Eleven is 
neither one thing nor the other, you see. Seems 
to break up the business part of the day.” 

Alarie Jeanne had turned away with a cheerful 
nod, and the two seated themselves on a bench. 

‘T’ll convey the fact to her presently,” Garvie 
said as he lit a cigarette. ‘T suppose, as I find 
you here, the collection is somewhere in the neigh- 
bourhood. How has it turned out ?” 

He did not mean Mr. Praed to know of his 
talk with Marie Jeanne. The latter settled 
himself with an air of satisfaction as he began, 
‘Tt’s turned out about as fine a thing as I’ve ever 
come across, sir. I wouldn’t have missed seeing 
it here, in its own home so to say, for half the 
pay ore in the Rockies. It’s been a kind of a 
revelation to me to see tapestries hanging on the 
very same walls since Henry of Navarre, you 
know, him as 

Bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest, 
sent them as a present to the Rostrenan folks of 
those days. And oak carvings — ” he leant for- 
ward to shake an emphatic finger at Garvie — 
‘There’s a sort of two-storied chest that’s a regu- 
lar history of France. It’s got a row of queens 
heads along the top, with kings full length down 

162 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


below, while the doors — panels, they call them — • 
are carved pictures of things that happened, mur- 
ders, and crownings, and such amusements of the 
day. You shall see it, sir,” and he clapped Garvie 
vigourously on the shoulder. 

‘Thank you.” 

“Then there is a mantlepiece that reaches right 
up to the ceiling, and every inch of it is carved and 
painted with coats-of-arms, and signs, used by the 
noble families round about as were connected with 
the Rostrenans. And that, sir, is to be packed up 
and sent out to my new house in Montreal, though 
it seemed like tearing her heart out when Mam'- 
selle agreed to it. It was wonderful to hear her 
going over the names that belonged to each one. 
But there isn’t a thing about the place that she 
doesn’t know the story of — and mind you, it’s a 
regular museum. She just walks along and tells 
you the history of this or that as she goes — and 
everyone of them blessed objects had something 
to do with her own family. It’s as though she 
fairly loved them all.” 

“But she is going to sell everything to you?” 
came Garvie’s practical reminder, which however, 
in nowise damped the romantic ardour of the nar- 
rator, who answered : 

“Every bit and scrap. You see, she says as she 
would rather have them go like that, all in a lot, 
to some one who will value them properly.” 

“And you give her a pretty good price for 
them, I suppose?” Garvie suggested. 

163 


AT THE LION D’OR 


The question seemed to act as a spur to Mr. 
Praed’s fervour. ‘‘Well young man,” he said, 
“you may just be sure that, though he’s got the 
name of a smart business man, Gabriel Praed 
isn’t going to bargain with an aristocratic orphan 
like that. No sir, if you were to see her quietly 
wiping away a tear when she thinks I ain’t look- 
ing — well it’s touching, that’s what it is. Tell 
you what, just come and jump into my machine, 
and I’ll run you down to the castle in no time. 
Mamselle’s working at the catalogue that she’s 
making out for me, with all the dates and his- 
tories concerned. We’re sure to find her there in 
the great hall, and so you’ll have a peep at her and 
the collection together. It’s a sight worth seeing, 
for it seems as though they belonged to each 
other.” 

Every word the simple-minded old man spoke 
deepened Garvie’s respectful pity for his chival- 
rous loyalty to a woman who must, at least, be the 
tool of sordid imposters. Instinctively shrinking 
from some discovery that might place him in an 
unpleasant position towards Julia’s father, he 
urged the first excuse that came into his head. 

“But I understood you that the young lady is 
in deep mourning. I fear my visit might be an 
intrusion. Had you not better first ask her if I 
might come ?” 

With a guilty feeling. He saw the old man flush 
as at a detected breach of good manners. “Of 
course, of course,” he said, hastily. “Glad you 

164 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


mentioned it. Pm not much of a judge of those 
kind of things myself, you know. Now that I 
think of it, I did have an idea this afternoon as 
she might be tired of me hanging round ; in fact, 
she rather hinted she’d like to be alone for a bit, 
and so I didn’t go back. I was thinking of taking 
a spin down the river to Bellon to have a look at 
them oyster-beds as they call parks. A paying 
sort of thing, they are, from all accounts. Tell 
you what, sir, the French are a good deal smarter 
people than I thought them. Would you like to 
come with me ?” 

Not feeling inclined for the expedition. Gar vie 
answered; ‘‘No thank you, I am a bit lazy after 
coming straight through from Paris. After I’ve 
had a bath, I must go and look up the garde- 
champetre to arrange about my fishing. That is 
what I came for, you know.” 

“I see,” and Mr. Praed stood before him, slowly 
nodding his head. “Well, it will be a comfort to 
have some one to speak to at dinner to-night. I 
began to wonder if I weren’t getting deaf and 
dumb, with everybody jabbering around me, and 
me not saying a word. Queer place, this square, 
ain’t it,” he went on. “Makes me feel as though 
I were at the theatre, and the girl in short petti- 
coats would come out there at the side by the 
market-house singing — not but what they haven’t 
all got short petticoats here.” 

Garvie looked at the familiar bit of old-world 

165 


AT THE LION D^OR 


life with the appreciative eyes of the newly re- 
turned. ‘‘Yes, it has a stage aspect,’’ he agreed, 
“and I suppose it has been the scene of tragedies 
and comedies enough within the past three or four 
hundred years. Fairs and conscriptions, wed- 
ding-feasts and pardons, may contain as concen- 
trated an essence of human nature as balls and 
race meetings. Are you off? Well, I’ll sit here 
and meditate a bit.” 

Mr. Praed has risen, and with a friendly “So 
long,” stalked off to the stables, whence Garvie 
presently saw him emerge in his car, and turn off 
into the road to the sea. 

As the hoot of his horn died away in the dis- 
tance, peace resumed her reign over Tremalo 
Place, and Garvie tried to fix his mind on an up- 
to-date view of the situation. 

“And you have left me plenty of food for medi- 
tation, my friend,” he reflected, “with Marie 
Jeanne, who knows all the news of the commune, 
saying that there are no Rostrenans left at Ros- 
braz, and with you maundering over your aristo- 
cratic orphan and her Henry IV tapestries. It 
strikes me that I have made a confounded fool of 
myself in suggesting Julia’s appearance on the 
scene, before I had investigated the orphan ques- 
tion. Had I better send her a wire not to come? 
No, the worse things are the more she may be 
needed to help in getting her father out of a 
pickle, and she is plucky enough to choose to face 

i66 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


any unpleasantness, if need be ; and I shall be here 
to stand by her,” and as he rose, his face settled 
into resolute lines that boded ill for whoso dis- 
turbed the peace of Miss Julia Praed. 


167 


XVI 

THE ARISTOCRATIC ORPHAN 

A S Garvie turned towards the inn door, his 
attention was caught by a slim woman 
crossing the Place towards the post- 
office. In these out-of-the-way Breton 
villages, the town dress of a lady was yet, in the 
winter season, a rare enough sight for him to give 
a second look to the black-clad form. 

‘Tt is not the notar3^’s wife, nor Madame the 
Inspector, and yet there is something familiar 
about the outline,” he cogitated. ‘‘Can it be the 
orphan, out on the loose, when her patron’s back 
is turned? I might as well wait until she comes 
back and have a look at her. Better still, I will 
stroll down and ask for letters.” 

Putting this idea into action, Garvie reached 
the post-office steps just as the girl in black ap- 
peared in the doorway. Her veil pushed back, 
she had paused to finish the hasty reading of a let- 
ter she held, thereby giving Garvie ample time to 
look up into the pale, red-lipped face and to recog- 
nize Virginie Lapierre, his lost model. “The 
aristocratic orphan! Now I must walk warily,” 
flashed through his mind, as his sharp “Vir- 

i68 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


ginie” caused her to draw back, a startled flash in 
her cairngorm eyes. 

A quick glance to right and left told that she 
meditated flight, but Garvie faced her impassively 
at the foot of the steps and she stood staring help- 
lessly down at him. Stifling a sense of pity, he 
spoke with sarcastic deference, ‘‘So this is the 
mysterious reason why Mademoiselle Lapierre 
could not finish her engagements. Some other 
more favoured artist has doubtless offered her 
more than I did.’’ 

The girl put up her bare hand to push back the 
loose masses of her red-gold hair, and ignoring 
the second meaning of his words, answered defi- 
antly, “It was no question of money. I told you 
that I must get away, and I gave you the first 
chance. After that I was free to do what I 
choose.” 

'' P ar fait emeu t, but why be so tragic over it? I 
assure you, that I passed some unhappy hours on 
your account — needlessly, as I see. 

The tears welled up in her wonderful eyes, and 
she put out one hand in an appealing fashion. 
“Please do not be angry with me, M’sieur Garvie. 
Indeed I could not help it — at least — oh, I must 
go. I have a long walk before dark,” she pleaded. 

“Then you are not staying at Gloannic’s?” he 
asked, still holding his ground. 

“No, out in the country; down the river.” 

Garvie gave no sign of what he guessed. “Ah, 
you are at the old sardine-packer’s house, I sup- 

169 


THE ARISTOCRATIC ORPHAN 


pose. A little amateur honeymoon perhaps ? Well, 
we may meet in our rambles. A fisherman 
gets to know the country. So I shall only say 
au revoir, not adieu” he said, stepping aside with 
a how. 

revoir, monsieur,” and with the old quick 
flutter of drapery she was gone, not down the 
place to the bridge, her natural way to Rosbraz if 
she were walking, but around a corner into an 
alley, leading, he knew, to a landing. 

“She has come up by boat. She could never 
walk it in her Parisian high heels,” he com- 
mented, as he went back to the inn. 

Yes, he had done right, he thought, in not mak- 
ing her desperate. There was no telling what she 
might do if she knew that she was detected. Dis- 
gusted as he was at the trouble which lay ahead 
for Julia, he was still distressed that it should be 
Virginie whom he would have to run down. He 
was now certain that she was under the thumb of 
some one; in all probability, Britski. “I wish 
that I could get her out of this without too big a 
row,” he said to himself. “Perhaps I can frighten 
her away before the thing is exposed. If only the 
old man were not so green. I believe he is capable 
of wanting to marry her,” and with a vexed laugh 
he went off in search of his room. 

Two days passed without further developments, 
peaceful spring days, when Garvie, making a pre- 
tense of fishing up the wooded banks of the brawl- 
ing little river, more than once explored the tidal 


170 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


shores between the village and the chateau of Ros- 
braz. 

The turreted grey pile, on its point amongst the 
chestnut woods gave no sign of what was happen- 
ing within its walls, and the coast-guard men in 
the little white houses on the opposite bank, when 
beguiled into gossip, only repeated Marie Jeanne’s 
story. 

‘'They must be Jews,” said a white-capped lit- 
tle woman, "for they never go to mass, not one of 
them.” 

These expeditions were cautiously made, to 
avoid the automobile and its owner, and the latter 
had so little suspicion of any curiosity on Garvie’s 
part that he even brought him a polite invitation 
from the chatelaine to visit Rostrenan and its 
treasures. 

"The plot thickens,” Garvie thought, and pre- 
pared for combat. But he might have saved him- 
self the trouble, for when they reached the cha- 
teau, a stolid youth whom he fancied to be an 
Alsatian, told them that Mademoiselle de Ros- 
trenan, having a migraine, regretted that she 
could not receive them. 

"Too bad, too bad,” fussed Mr. Praed, "but 
you shall see the collection, all the same.” 

Garvie did see it, and here came one of his 
greatest surprises. A certain portion of the tapes- 
tries and wood-carvings were undoubtedly valu- 
able works of art, while about a third were the 
most palpable modern imitations. 

171 


THE ARISTOCRATIC ORPHAN 


Even allowing for the value of the real an- 
tiques, there did not seem to be a sufficient quan- 
tity of bric-a-brac to justify the trouble that had 
been taken over the affair. Why, Garvie won- 
dered, had Britski, not stocked the place full of 
sham antiques when he was playing so bold a 
game? With this thought, he turned to Mr. 
Praed, asking abruptly : “Are these all the 
things? From what you said, I fancied it was a 
much larger collection.’’ 

Looking into the heavily lined face, he saw an 
unwonted embarrassment, and in a flash he under- 
stood that there was something in the affair which 
Mr. Praed had been induced to keep secret. 

“Well, yes, these are most all ; that is, there are 
some odds and ends in the long gallery up above, 
but we might disturb Mam’selle if we went there,” 
was the hasty answer that confirmed his sus- 
picions. 

It was early in the next afternoon and Mr. 
Praed was sitting on the bench outside the Lion 
d’Or, smoking a big cigar with an air of gloom. 
A cheery “good day” from the inn door caused 
him to look around to see Garvie standing there 
with an after-luncheon air of well being. “Morn- 
ing, sir, morning,” was the gruff retort. 

Garvie sat down and proceeded to light a cigar- 
ette. “Sorry not to turn up for dejeuner,'' he be- 
gan, “but I made an early start and went up- 
stream to the third mill. Fortunately, Marie 

172 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


Jeanne’s philosophy stands any strain of unpunc- 
tuality. I had even a better lunch than usual.” 

Again Mr. Praed answered drearily: ‘‘One 
needs philosophy for mixed-up meals like these 
French ones. Not but what the woman does her 
best, I’ll say that for her,” and he gave a sigh, 
which was obviously not a tribute to Marie 
Jeanne’s virtues. 

Garvie thought it time to make inquiries. “You 
look dull. I hope there’s nothing the matter?” 

“Nothing particular, but I don’t feel exactly 
cheerful somehow.” 

With a sudden idea that he was in a humour 
for confidences, Garvie asked, “Have you been out 
to Rosbraz to-day, and is the chatelaine better?” 

The old man turned on him a troubled glance 
from under his shaggy grey eyebrows. “Mean- 
ing Mam’selle? Yes, I’ve been up there this 
morning, and I didn’t see her, neither. I saw a 
queer little old woman, who is always hanging 
round. Sort of nurse or housekeeper, I fancy. 
She speaks a few words of English, and told me 
that Mam’selle was very soiiffrante — suffering, I 
suppose that means, and was in a desolating fever. 
Seems bad, don’t it? Wonder if the poor girl has 
any one to take care of her ?” 

“I daresay the old woman nurses her,” Garvie 
suggested in the role of comforter. 

“That old gypsy witch,” was the contemptuous 
retort. “Tell you what, Mr. Garvie,” with a re- 
lapse into pathos, “it would touch you just as 


173 


THE ARISTOCRATIC ORPHAN 


much as it has me if you once saw her, so quiet 
and proud like, and yet so sad and lonely.” 

Taking care to give no sign of his difference 
of opinion, Garvie agreed, ‘T dare say it might. 
We men are easily moved by beauty in distress.” 

‘T believe it’s nothing more than worrying over 
these things that has worn her out. I feel like a 
brute about it,” came in dull tones ; then with the 
interest of a new idea, Mr. Praed asked : 

•'Look here, Mr. Garvie, did Julia speak to you 
before you left Paris, of my writing her about 
having Mam’selle as a kind of companion to her — 
talking French, and all that?” 

The eagerness in his face, warned Garvie how 
much importance he attached to the question, and 
redoubled his caution. Knowing that Virginie 
could never venture thus far, he wished to prepare 
Mr. Praed for disappointment. 

"Yes, Miss Praed did mention it,” he allowed. 

"Seem to cotton to the idea, eh?” 

"Well,” he began, "I have found that women 
are apt to fight shy of ready-made friends to or- 
der. They seem to have an inherent taste for 
picking them out for themselves. You see, if the 
young ladies did not happen to take a fancy to 
each other it might be awkward for everyone.” 

The testiness of a worried man flashed into the 
other’s face. 

"Awkward,” he snapped. "Not a bit of it. 
Why the deuce shouldn’t they take to each other? 


174 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Julia's a sensible girl, and she can’t help admiring 
Mam’selle when she has once met her. You’ll 
see, they’ll be the best of friends,” he added in 
momentary optimism. 

Garvie, still feeling bound to administer dis- 
couragement, answered: “In my experience, a 
woman can always help admiring the person she 
does not choose to admire. But, of course, I 
should be a better judge if I had seen the young 
lady.” 

He had been successful in turning Mr. Praed’s 
thoughts away from Julia. “Of course, you will 
see her in a day or two,” was the pacific rejoinder. 
“But, at any rate, you saw the collection yester- 
day. What did you think of that?” 

Here was a fresh difficulty to be faced. Doubts 
must be aroused without too great friction. “You 
are sure that you want my opinion ?” 

Even this quiet question seemed to cause irri- 
tation. “Of course I do,” was the sharp answer. 
“Though I know as you can’t do anything but ad- 
mire it.” 

“That is as may be. At any rate, you shall 
have it. You must remember that an artist, living 
for five or six years in Paris, has come across a 
good deal of bric-a-brac, both sham and real. We 
go without our dinners to buy it, in the first flush 
of youth ; later we pawn it when we are hard up ; 
we hire it for our own pictures, and criticise it in 
other men’s ; and so, one way or another, we get 
a certain knowledge on the subject. Now,” and 


175 


THE ARISTOCRATIC ORPHAN 


his voice deepened impressively, ‘T took a good 
look around, yesterday. The light in that old 
hall 'was dim, but still I feel certain that, while 
some of the furniture is of undoubted value, there 
is about a third of the stuff that is only modern 
rubbish. One, at least, of the tapestries, is com- 
posed of odds and ends put together on fresh can- 
vass.” 

He had hardly got so far when Mr. Praed 
sprang up in great excitement and faced him, one 
hand stretched out in emphatic remonstrance. 
‘‘Look here,” he shouted, “whaPs the use of say- 
ing a thing like that, when I told you that Mam'- 
selle knows the history of every bit and scrap from 
the day it came into their own castle. Didn’t I 
tell you how she said — ” 

Garvie, beginning to feel impatient, interrupted, 
“Oh, yes, I know she said, but it seems to be your 
business to judge between what she says and a 
disinterested opinion, given at your own re- 
quest — ” 

Forgetting his usual deference for the son of 
his old employer, Mr. Praed broke in, “That’s all 
very well. I daresay you mean all right, Mr. Gar- 
vie, but after all, it’s only your opinion, and if you 
expect me to swallow one word as casts a doubt 
on Mam’selle’s high-mindedness, you’ll just find 
yourself mistaken, that’s all.” He hesitated then 
with a deprecating glance into the other’s stern 
face, went on more mildly: “There, there, I 
didn’t mean any rudeness. I’m sure. It’s only that 

176 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Fm that worried, what with the young lady’s ill- 
ness and my feeling that no respect could be too 
great for her, and what with your hints and 
Julia’s cantankerous letter, that I hardly know 
what I’m saying. But I tell you what, sir,” with 
a fresh outburst of wrath, “if you and that daugh- 
ter of mine have been putting your heads together 
to vex me just because of her silly girl’s spite — ” 

Garvie’s patience was gone, and he broke in, 
gravely: “I can quite believe that you do not 
know what you are saying, Mr. Praed, when you 
speak of your daughter in such terms. I will just 
take a stroll down to the quay while you think it 
over a bit.” 

“Jove!” he gasped helplessly, as a luggage- 
laden carriage dashed around the corner and drew 
up at the door. 

Within it sat, beaming with smiles, the present 
bone of contention — ^Julia Praed. 


177 


XVIL 

IN ARCADY 

T here was evidently no misgiving as to 
her welcome in Julia’s mind. Before 
Garvie could hurry to her aid, she had 
jumped lightly from the carriage and 
with a gay nod to him had hurried up to her 
father. 

“Yes, it’s me, father, not my ghost,” she an- 
nounced with a little laugh of triumph. Mr. 
Praed was a picture of undisguised dismay, as he 
stonily accepted her embrace. 

“Julia Praed ! Whatever has brought you 
here?” he demanded in an attempt at sternness, as 
he freed himself from her arms. With an un- 
daunted smile, the girl answered, “Such fun. 
I’ve descended on you like an avalanche, and man- 
aged to surprise you both at the same time.” 

Garvie looking on, decided that Mr. Praed was 
guiltily trying to work himself up into a temper, 
as he retorted gruffly, “I haven’t much fancy my- 
self for them sort of surprises. They seem to me 
a good sight more like spying upon people, and 
that’s a thing as I ain’t going to stand.” 

Once before Garvie had seen her flash into sud- 
den wrath, as she did now, though there was a 
mingling of wounded surprise in her voice that 

178 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


stirred his sympathy, when she protested, ^‘Spying 
on you, father ? Why, what ever put such an idea 
into your head? What could there be for me to 
spy about 

Meeting Garvie’s warning glance, she checked 
herself, and holding out her hand to him said with 
an attempt at her usual manner, ‘‘So you’re stay- 
ing here, Mr. Gar vie, right in the same house 
with father. Isn’t that pleasant for us all, and 
isn’t this the dearest little place that one ever saw 
out of Cavalleria Rusticana or the Pardon de 
Floermcl? Look at those women over there in 
the big white caps and collars. Aren’t they 
quaint?” and she pointed to a chattering group of 
Tremalo matrons who, in all the ardour of bar- 
gaining, had surrounded a fisherman laden with 
a basket of eels. 

“Where is your maid? Surely you did not 
come alone?” Garvie demanded, somewhat re- 
provingly. A mischievous glance reminded him 
of their last talk. 

“Why,” Julia began with a deprecating smile, 
“when I told her where I was coming, she said 
that her mother was ill and wouldn’t consent to 
her leaving Paris. So I just came off by myself 
and I got here all right, you see.” 

“Crazy notion,” muttered Mr. Praed. 

“I had better call Marie Jeanne and get your 
trunk taken in,” Garvie suggested — “ah, here she 
is” — as the ponderous form of the landlady ap- 
peared in the doorway. 


179 


IN ARCADY 


The latter stared in amazement at the brilliant 
apparition of a pretty girl in smart blue serge 
travelling dress, apparently on friendly terms with 
Mr. Garvie. 

‘‘Oh, doesn’t she look nice in that dear little 
cap,” was Julia’s frank comment, and with a quick 
movement she had grasped Marie Jeanne’s hand, 
saying, ^^Bonjour, madame, honjour/* 

The latter returned her smile and greeting, and 
then turned to Garvie in appeal. 

“But, monsieur, can you tell me does this lady 
mean to stay here? For, by St. Anne d’Auray, I 
cannot give her a good room without disturbing 
one of you gentlemen.” 

“That’s all right, Marie Jeanne. This is Mr. 
Praed’s daughter, and she can have my room. I 
will take one in the attic, if you like.” 

Marie Jeanne’s brow relaxed. “As you choose. 
Monsieur. The front attic is empty. Dame, as 
this is Monsieur’s daughter, we must make her 
comfortable. Here, cocher, bring in that trunk,” 
she shouted, and the man made haste to obey. 
Marie Jeanne’s word was law to all travelling folk 
throughout the department. 

The sight of the trunk being carried in aroused 
Mr. Praed to a fresh outburst of vexation. “Look 
here, Julia,” he remonstrated, “whatever are you 
going to do with yourself here? You won’t have 
a soul to speak to, you know. Mr. Garvie will be 
away all day, fishing.” 

Here an interchanged glance spoke questioning 
i8o 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


and reassurance. “As for me, Pm busy catalogu- 
ing the things down at the castle. I suppose you 
don’t want to go dancing at the country folks’ 
weddings over there in the market.” 

All undismayed at this prospect of isolation, 
Julia laughed. “Oh, what fun that would be. I 
saw a wedding party at Quimperle, and I mean to 
get one of those dresses with embroidered bodices. 
But, father,” with an appealing touch on his arm, 
“couldn’t I help you with your catalogue? That 
would give me a chance to get acquainted with 
Mademoiselle de Rostrenan.” 

How winsome she seemed to Garvie, as she 
made this effort to propitiate her father, her face 
raised to his with a kindly smile. It was to no 
use, however, for Mr. Praed’s embarrassment 
only made him more surly. 

“Well, it happens that you can’t make friends 
with Mam’selle, just now at any rate,” he blurted 
out. “She’s ill; worn out with trouble, and Pm 
sure she don’t want any strangers coming bother- 
ing round,” here a scowl at Garvie emphasized 
the words. “Anyway, I ain’t going to have her 
disturbed a bit more than I can help. I’ve got 
business up at the castle now, (Mr. Praed always 
gave this liberal translation to chateau) and since 
you’ve chosen to come here without being asked, 
you can just look after yourself. You seem to 
be able to chatter to the landlady, so you had 
better settle about your room, and rest for a bit. 

i8i 


IN ARCADY 


I suppose you’ll be going off fishing again, Mr. 
Garvie?” 

“I doubt it. The day has come out too bright,” 
was the casual answer, given without a glance at 
Julia. 

‘'Well, suit yourself, and I’ll suit myself. I’m 
off,” and with a great show of resolution that 
veiled an inward sheepishness, Mr. Praed walked 
over toward the shed that sheltered his auto-car. 
Left standing there together. Gar vie and Julia 
looked at each other and both laughed, though 
there was an undercurrent of distress in the girl’s 
voice. 

“What does it all mean, Mr. Garvie ?” she asked 
helplessly. It had been a great shock to find her- 
self for the first time powerless to influence. 

Garvie would not let her see his misgivings, 
and answered briskly, “First and foremost, it 
means that you are not to run off and weep, as 
you have half a mind to. We’ll manage to turn 
it into a joke yet. Everything will seem different 
when you are rested. Come and sit down on 
these benches, whence we study village life, and I 
will ask Marie Jeanne for some of her good 
coffee. Her tea is apt to be eccentric, but her 
coffee is above reproach. I suppose you had de- 
jeuner in Quimperle before starting?” 

“Oh yes, at that dear old inn. I’m really not 
a bit tired, only I feel so bewildered. What ever 
has got into father’s head to make him behave 
like that?’ 


182 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Garvie decided to tell the truth. “The same 
thing that has got into the heads of silly old gen- 
tlemen before now. He can think of nothing 
but this girl.’’ 

“Poor old dear!” 

“And you must be careful not to oppose him 
when you can help it, or he may be capable of 
marrying her,” he warned her. 

“Goodness gracious I” came her first cry of dis- 
may; then with a shy little smile, “but after all, 
poor old soul, if he wants his share of the fun, 
why shouldn’t he have it? There is plenty of 
money for us all to have a good time.” 

“You are very unselfish,” Garvie commented, 
then sinking his voice in new gravity, “But I am 
sorry to say that this is a more serious matter 
than an old man making a foolish marriage 
with a young girl. I have found out that this 
Mam’selle of his, does not belong to the Ros- 
trenan family, as she says. She is a girl, sent 
here from Paris to persuade your father into 
buying a lot of stuff that has been recently put 
into this old chateau.” 

Julia sat staring at him in wide-eyed amaze- 
ment. “But how do you know ?” she asked. 

Garvie hesitated. Then, to his subsequent sor- 
row, he decided to tell Julia nothing of Virginia 
Lapierre. The two stood for him at such opposite 
poles of womanhood that he hoped to keep them 
apart, even in thought. 

“I had not listened to Marie Jeanne’s gossip 

183 


IN ARCADY 


for ten minutes before I made a guess at it, and 
a few questions among the country-folk soon set- 
tled the question. You see, they must have 
counted on your father not speaking French, and 
on there being no English or American artists 
here at this time of the year ; otherwise, the whole 
scheme would have been detected. I heard from 
the people down the river, of the tug that had 
come from Lorient a month or so ago, laden 
with big packing-cases, which were landed at the 
chateau. Furniture for the new owners, the 
workmen said. Before that the place had been 
quite empty. As far as I can make out, the girl 
herself has only been here for ten days or so. It 
was a master stroke of Britski’s to send her here 
alone, and stay on in Paris. Your father would 
have been far more wideawake in dealing with a 
man than with a woman.’’ 

Julia had followed his words attentively, and 
now asked, “But why, if you knew all this, didn’t 
you warn him at once?” 

“I had to make sure of my facts first. As you 
drove up, I was just opening the campaign, with 
some doubts as to the value of the collection, but 
at the first hint he flared up, and you saw what a 
humour it left him in.” 

He paused to let his words sink in, his eyes 
intent on the pensive droop of Julia’s head. 

“I must confess there are some things about 
the business that puzzle me. More than half the 
furniture and tapestries are things of real value, 

184 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


on which he would make small profit and there 
is not nearly the quantity of stuff that I expected 
to see. It seems as if it could not be worth while 
for a man of Britski’s standing to run such risks 
and go to such expense for an affair of no greater 
importance than merely selling that amount of 
bric-a-brac. For your own sake/’ he went on 
impressively, ‘Ve must move very cautiously. 
Even if he did buy all the stuff that he calls The 
collection,’ it would matter little to you compared 
to his making his life wretched by a marriage 
with an adventuress. Is not that how you feel ?” 
and his voice was very kindly as he leant toward 
her. 

‘^Of course,” came the fervent response, as 
wet grey eyes looked up at him. ‘Tt’s not the 
money that matters. Oh,” with a sudden flash 
of inspiration, ‘There is that money that father 
settled on me, more than I ever need. Couldn’t 
we offer to pay her more than the people in Paris 
do, if she would go away and not let him know 
where she was?” 

Again Garvie hesitated as to whether he should 
tell her of his acquaintance with Virginie, and 
again he made the mistake of silence. 

Remembering the model’s queer disregard for 
money, he guessed that she was coerced by some 
other power, and shook his head. “A bribe 
would be useless if she thought that she could get 
the whole, and it would be rash to let her guess 
at our fears. No, I feel sure that a waiting game 

185 


IN ARCADY 


is the best. By-the-by, do you think that Mrs. 
Mallock is in this? Did she ever shew that she 
knew anything about Tremalo?’’ 

“I think not/’ Julia said, slowly. “No, I am 
sure that the way things were going didn’t suit 
her. Every time she saw a letter from father, 
she asked when he would be back, and seemed 
awfully put out at my saying I didn’t know. Oh 
yes, and she kept trying to make me tell her the 
name of this place without asking me directly. 
I had great fun pretending I didn’t know what 
she meant, until one day I found her reading 
the address on a letter I had written him. ‘I was 
just looking to see that you had put the depart- 
ment correctly, my dear. So many English peo- 
ple spell Finistere with two r’s and without the 
accent,’ she said sweetly. 

“ 'Well, perhaps I spelt it right because Em not 
English,’ I said. She would try to find out too, 
what father said about this girl and the chateau. 
No I think she is not in this game,” she ended. 

“All the better. It makes one less to fight. 
But how did you get along with her?” he asked. 

Julia smiled as at quaint recollections. “Oh, 
we got along well enough. At first she was in- 
clined to snub me, but when I saw that she was 
fidgetting at father’s not coming back, I thought 
she might want to borrow money from him, as 
she had done before. So I offered to lend her 
some, and she took it down at a gulp. After she 
found that I had a separate banking account she 

i86 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


just crawled round on all fours. It was a nui- 
sance the way she bothered me to buy things; 
but, on the other hand, she rather dropped the 
little French count. I fancy she thought she 
would keep all the cake for herself.” 

The careless fashion in which Julia told her 
tale, did not lessen Garvie’s indignant sympathy. 
‘'You poor girl, to have such a creature on your 
hands,” he said. “Why did you not turn her 
out?” 

“Oh, well, I suppose it was best to have some 
one, and she was useful in a way. I had learnt 
her tricks, and would rather put up with them 
than start in with a set of new ones. There has 
always been some one of that kind ever since we 
got so rich,” she added sadly. 

“And yet you keep your kindly faith in human 
nature.” 

“Oh, I wouldn't want to live if I didn’t,” she 
protested earnestly. “Look at father, now. It’s 
just because he is sorry for this girl that she has 
got round him.” 

Garvie was careful to suppress any signs of a 
more masculine opinion, knowing there was some 
truth in her view. 

“Then there is Miss Dorr,” she went on ea- 
gerly, “who I believe would like me better if I 
hadn’t a cent.” 

“And my poor self. Might not I be counted 
in the category of faithful friends?” Garvie asked, 
with sudden intentness of voice and eyes. 

187 


IN ARCADY 


A blush and dimpling smile answered him. 
‘‘Haven’t I proved it by descending on you with 
all my troubles? You are one of the knights- 
errant we used to read about at school.” 

Pleasant as was the response, Garvie might 
have liked it to have been a little less ready. He 
made his next words lighter in consequence. 

“I am vowed to your faithful service. But you 
have not told me how you shook off your chape- 
ron.” 

Julia laughed. “She was an amazed woman 
when I told her that I was going to join some 
friends from America — that was true, you know 
■ — and suggested that she would prefer to go back 
to her own apartment. She protested at my go- 
ing alone, but when she saw that I didn’t care 
what she said, she went off quite amiably. I think 
she understood that she would never get in again. 
So that’s the end of her. Now for the other one.” 

“The other one must, I fear, be as I said, a 
waiting game.” 

“But is there nothing that I can do now?” 
Julia asked. 

Garvie saw that it would be hard to keep her 
to an inactive policy. “The first thing to do, 
is to get your father into a good-humour again. 
That should be easy for you to manage.” 

“Poor old soul, yes,” Julia said with a tender 
laugh. “He is most likely already conscience 
stricken at the thought of my spending the rest 
of the day weeping, alone in a strange room.” 

i88 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


‘T hope that is not your intention.” 

*T’m sure it’s not. Why, I want to set off and 
explore this queer, lovely country as soon as ever 
I can. Which is the very nicest place for me to 
go first? I’m a great walker, you know.” 

Garvie looked down into the frank face with 
its lurking tremour of mischief, and answered 
unsmilingly, ‘T am afraid it is hard to direct 
you. You really need to take a guide. The coun- 
try is a network of lanes and paths. If we cross 
the bridge, we can go along the quay and out into 
the shore meadows where the banks are yellow 
with primroses.” 

“Oh, I do want to see them growing wild!” 
was the eager interruption. 

“Then if we go straight up the hill from the 
bridge, and turn off by a path through the chest- 
nut woods, we come to the ruins of Rustifen 
chateau,” Garvie went on in the monotonous voice 
of a guide. 

“Ruins? Oh, are there really ruins?” 

“Or if we go up the river bank, we can climb 
the hill to old Tremalo chapel and calvaire — ” 

“Oh, don’t, you bewilder me,” she protested 
gaily. “Take me anywhere. But I forgot, you 
are going fishing.” 

Garvie answered the challenge with a calm con- 
tradiction. “No, you did not forget. You 
knew that I was not going to leave you here 
alone. Shall we go now?” and he looked down 
at her feet to see if she were prepared. Yes, the 

189 


IN ARCADY 


trim skirt was quite short, and the well-shaped 
boots were solid in make. 

“You forget that I’m a mountain girl,” she 
triumphed. “Oh, you don’t know how glad I 
am to be in the wilds again.” 

And so, side by side, they set off into what was 
to Julia a new world of delight. 


190 


XVIII 

MRS. MALLOCK ON THE WAR PATH 

A S Mrs. Mallock drove off from the Ave- 
nue Friedland apartment, which to her 
represented the land of plenty, her 
honeyed smiles hid a tempest of baffled 
fury. She was in such a rage with everyone that 
she could not decide where first to concentrate 
her wrath. Julia had practically dismissed her, 
but she suspected Andrew Garvie, or even Sylvia 
Dorr, of having prompted the deed. Mr. Praed, 
her own discovery, had vanished into the wilder- 
ness like St. John the Baptist, but was not Britski 
responsible for spiriting him out of her grasp ? 

Worst of all, there was this mysterious girl at 
this mysterious chateau, whom she suspected of 
being the main cause of her discomfiture. Why, 
oh why, she mourned to herself, had she ever ad- 
mitted those rapacious wretches to a share of the 
spoils ? 

Lamenting thus, she ignored the fact that she 
had no choice in the matter. Her fortunes had 
been at a low ebb, and if she had not returned 
from America with plump prey there would have 
been no more comfortable dinners at the Hotel 


ON THE WARPATH 


Cleveland, no smart dresses from Madame Mar- 
celle, no commissions from Britski. 

She was shrewd enough to know that she had 
got the worst of it, but she did not intend to give 
up her hold without a struggle and she lost no 
time in taking her grievances to Madame Mar- 
celle’s show-rooms. 

There, the stream of ornamental life was flow- 
ing on smoothly, with a coming and going of 
smartly dressed women. Madame Marcelle’s 
welcome was not effusive, but presently, when the 
day’s rush seemed over, she came across to where 
Mrs. Mallock was forlornly studying a model on 
a stand, and suggested a retreat to her own sanc- 
tum. 

‘T always take a rest and have tea or a syrop 
after these exacting ladies go, and before I look 
over the day’s orders,” she said, as she settled 
herself in a deep arm chair. In this high-tide of 
Parisian spring life, the day’s work done by Mad- 
ame Marcelle might have exhausted a strong man, 
but she looked as fresh and unruffled as she had 
been eight hours earlier. 

‘‘And what has your young woman been get- 
ting travelling dresses for?” she asked, with un- 
usual directness. 

Mrs. Mallock had not enough quickness to hide 
the ignorance which revealed her loss of power. 

“Has she?” she gasped, then recollecting her- 
self. “Oh, I remember she did speak of some- 
thing of the kind. Two, wasn’t it?” 


192 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


“Yes, two,” and Madame Marcelle’s smile told 
that she marked the lucky guess. “But where is 
she going?” 

Mrs. Mallock’s grey-green eyes met hers sus- 
piciously. “Oh, she has just gone down to Brit- 
tany to join her father for a week or so. He 
wanted her to see this furniture he is buying,” 
she said airily, adding, “Britski should get a big 
commission on it.” 

“I suppose so, if it was he who arranged the 
sale,” was the indifferent answer. 

“And this girl who owns the stuff. I hear 
there is talk of the Praeds bringing her back with 
them.” 

Mrs. Mallock had certainly known more of her 
letters than Julia suspected. 

Was it fancy, or did Madame Marcelle’s high 
colour waver, and the lines of her mouth tighten ? 
At any rate, it delighted her adversary to think 
so, though she was unaware of the cause. 

She remembered however, rumours that Mad- 
ame Marcelle’s weak point was jealousy, not, 
it was said, without cause. 

“I haven’t heard Britski speak of her. We are 
both so busy at this time of year that we hardly 
see each other,” the dressmaker explained. 

“Ah, my dear, you are a wonderful woman. 
I do not see how you manage to keep so fresh, 
working as you do. And now tell me,” with a 
fawning smile, “do you think that you could 
make me a chic little costume, foulard or crepe, 


193 


ON THE WARPATH 


or something of that kind, for the Auteuil races ? 
There are some newcomers, South Africans, at 
the Cleveland who I think would take me, and I 
could tell them who had made it.” 

“They have been here already,” was the dis- 
concerting reply, “and I am weeks deep in or- 
ders now. I can undertake nothing more before 
the Grand Prix.” 

Under her paint, Mrs. Mallock flushed with 
rage. This was as good as a refusal of any fur- 
ther contributions, and how could she fish in so- 
cial waters without suitable array? 

“The Grand Prix! But that is two months 
off,” she quavered. 

“Exactly so. And I shall be working night 
and day until then. Must you go ?” for the other 
had risen. “Well,” with a final relenting, “if 
I have any misfits I will let you know.” 

“Misfits!” The word seemed the last insult, 
the final stamp of failure. 

In a nervous tremour of temper, Mrs. Mallock 
fled, turning down the boulevard towards 
Britski’s. In calmer moments she stood in some 
awe of the cynically inscrutable man, but the hor- 
rible conviction that she was being flung aside as 
a useless tool gave her a false courage. 

This courage swept her on its tide until, reach- 
ing Britski in his sanctum, she poured forth the 
vials of her wrath. It was she who had discov- 
ered the Praeds. It was she who had taken the 
girl to Marcelle, “and a fortune she must have 


194 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


made out of her/’ It was she who had brought 
Mr. Praed to Britski, “and what return do I 
get?” she screamed; “you take him out of my 
hands, and send him off under the influence of 
some creature of your own.” A flash of rage 
lighted Britski’s impassive face. “Why couldn’t 
you have sold him all the rubbishy stuff you 
wanted to here in Paris instead of swooping him 
away like this ?” 

Britski, who had been sitting contemplating her 
as he might a dubious piece of bric-a-hrac, now 
leant forward his delicate white hands lightly in- 
terclasped on the table. 

“And why couldn’t you have kept him?” he 
demanded. “You had the first chance. If you 
had been up to your work, what could I have done 
against you? If you had been ten years younger, 
and prettier than you ever were, you would have 
had the western patriarch under your thumb to- 
day, so that all the powers of darkness could not 
have stirred him. And if you were not strong 
enough to bewitch the father, why could you 
not have kept the daughter? I never interfered 
there. It is the same old story, I suppose. As 
soon as you felt sure of the girl, you treated her 
like a fool ; sniffed and sneered at her, and never 
saw that every day she was learning to do without 
you. 

“You could have made yourself necessary to 
her if you had taken the trouble to see that she 
enjoyed herself. Instead of which you try to play 


195 


ON THE WARPATH 


a double game with those mummies from the 
Faubourg, and to get a commission for introduc- 
ing their grasshopper of a son. A girl would be 
a fool, indeed, to look at him. 

‘ WFy come whining to me because you failed ? 
If you had secured the father, I should only have 
taken my pickings through you. If he had mar- 
ried you, we would have held our tongues about 
Alphonse.’’ Here the woman’s face waxed 
ghastly. ‘^As it is,” and he brought one hand 
down on the table with sudden emphasis, “he is 
my prey and I claim him, and you can do nothing 
but hold your tongue and try to do better if you 
get another chance.” 

Could any words be more maddening than 
these, to a woman who knew their truth ? 

“But I shall not hold my tongue,” she screamed, 
all caution forgotten. “And I may yet spoil your 
game for you. What is to prevent my following 
these people to this Breton village, and finding 
ont what is going on there ? This Mademoiselle 
de Rostrenan may prove interesting company for 
me as well as for that doting old idiot.” 

Though this last dart was a random one, she 
saw that it had struck home. 

*'Nom de DieuT broke in Britski in a fierce 
voice, little above a whisper. “You had better 
understand that you interfere at your own peril. 
Your unpaid hotel bill and Marcelle’s nice little 
account for clothes will make pleasant reading 
for you over your coffee to-morrow.” 

196 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


With a limp relaxation of mouth and arms, 
Mrs. Mallock sat staring at him. She had never 
thouglit that he might thus disavow all agree- 
ments. ‘‘But,’' she stammered, “it was always 
understood that the business I brought you offset 
those accounts. Look at what I have done.” 

“You have no written understanding to that 
effect, and could not prove it in any court,” was 
the remorseless statement. 

A wise man knows the right moment to make 
peace, and Britski, seeing that the woman was 
crushed, assumed a more placable air. 

''Voyons, what is the use of squabbling like 
this,” he said. “It is wiser to help each other 
along. I have this western Croesus in hand to- 
day, you may have someone else in hand to-mor- 
row. All roads lead to Paris, luckily for us. 
Come, let us renew our alliance.” 

With a benevolent smile he held out a hand 
to the wretched woman, down whose painted 
cheeks a few tears had straggled, making strange 
traces in the paint. Thoroughly cowed by this 
terrible sense of the passing of her day, the worst 
blow of all to a woman, she stammered, “I am 
sure I meant no harm. I only wanted to be fairly 
treated.” 

“And so you shall be. What is it, Joseph?” as 
a servant appeared with a card. “Yes, I am com- 
ing. Excuse me, madame,” and with a polite 
bow, he followed the man out. 

Left alone in her humiliation, Mrs. Mallock 


197 


ON THE WARPATH 


looked around on the few costly treasures which 
the little room enshrined, with a futile desire to 
rend and destroy. She longed to thrust that 
sharp steel paper knife through the tiny canvas 
that represented thousands of francs. How easy 
it would be to lift her sunshade and crash that 
old Venice mirror into sparkling atoms; easy 
though impossible, for she knew that she was 
afraid of Britski, and dared not do it. 

Ah, perhaps there was means of a subtler re- 
venge in that bunch of keys left hanging in the 
half-open drawer of the writing table. 

With a noisless swoop, she was across the 
room in Britski’ s seat, ransacking the contents 
of the drawer. Receipted bills, auctioneers’ cata- 
logues, these she had no time to investigate. But 
still the eager hands sought on, every sense on the 
alert for a coming footstep. What was this little 
bundle of photographs at the very back of the 
drawer ? Quickly snapping off the band that held 
them, she shuffled them over like a pack of cards. 

She had often heard of Britski’s skill as a pho- 
tographer, and amateur photographs have been, 
before now, revealers of secrets. 

Her first glance showed that these were all 
from the same model, though with a variety of 
costumes. Where had she seen that face before, 
she wondered, that heavy- jawed, angular face, 
with its big eyes and full lips, and framing masses 
of light hair? 

Ah, they were neatly labelled in Britski’s min- 
198 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


ute, unmistakable writing. A fussy tidiness in 
these small Jdiings was a characteristic of his. 

“Virginie in the Quarter,” shewed the smartly 
dressed girl who is oftenest seen in the most Par- 
isian of Paris streets. She strays little into the 
broad avenues of Cosmopolis. 

“Virginie as chatelaine.” It needed a second 
glance to make sure that this demure jeune iille 
with primly arranged hair and plain black dress, 
whose whole drooping pose bespoke a sad shrink- 
ing from notice, was the same person as the reck- 
less daughter of the streets ; but the features were 
too marked for any possible mistake. 

Here was the third, and no one who had ever 
seen Sarah Bernhardt play Theodora could mis- 
take the dress. “Virginie as A — G — ’s model,” 
it was labelled. Open-mouthed, Mrs. Mallock 
stared at this last photo, various scraps of over- 
heard talk sorting themselves in her mind. A 
freak of memory recalled words that had drifted 
to her at a crowded reception : “What is Garvie’s 
picture this year ?” asked one man, and the other 
answered, “Same old thing. Virginie Lapierre 
with variations. Theodora this time.” 

How plain it all seemed now. This Virginie 
Lapierre, known as Garvie’s model, had been sent 
to Brittany to play the part of the last of a noble 
family, and so work upon the old man’s suscepti- 
bilities as to secure a good sale for Britski. Mrs. 
Mallock had as yet suspected nothing more than a 
big commission coming to him from a genuine 


199 


ON THE WARPATH 


sale, and now she paid tribute to the daring of the 
scheme with a passing thrill of admiration. 

There was hope, too, for surely in such troubled 
waters there was prey to be had for the seeking. 

There were many puzzling details in the mat- 
ter, such as what influence had been strong 
enough to take Virginie away from her congenial 
Paris life to the wilds of Brittany, and presum- 
ably set her on opposite sides from Garvie. This 
however, might be explained by the tempting bait 
of a rich old man to be hoodwinked; but that 
problem could wait later solving. 

With hands that trembled with excitement, she 
rearranged the drawer, slipped the little package 
inside her dress, and went fourth into the outer 
galleries, leaving a message for Britski to say that 
she would not wait now but would return soon. 

‘‘A little interval for reflection will do him no 
harm,’^ she added to herself. 

Without yet having decided on any profitable 
course of action, she felt exultantly sure of hold- 
ing winning cards. 

She took a cab, and as it hurried her through 
the cheerful bustle of the streets, she found her- 
self murmuring: 

Negligence, 

Fit for a fool to fall by. 

In her far off American girlhood, before she 
had met so many of the world’s buffets, she had 
known her Shakespeare well, and the words of 
the great Cardinal came naturally to her mind. 


200 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


But there were more practical matters to con- 
sider than the astute Britski's mistake in label- 
ling such tell-tale records. 

What was she going to do with them? She 
knew too well the hopelessness of trying to win 
back the old man’s good-will with proofs against 
this w^oman who had ensnared him. But Britski’s 
words had revealed her error in regard to Julia. 
Was it too late to convince the girl of her disin- 
terested friendship? 

At first inclined to look on the daughter as un- 
important, she had acquired a new respect for 
her on finding that she had the independent con- 
trol of an income settled on her by her father. If 
Mr. Praed persisted in his infatuation, Julia 
would doubtless quarrel with him, and might then 
be glad of a chaperon. 

Ah, but there was Garvie! If she were to 
marry him, what need would she have of Mrs. 
Mallock ? 

And then, all at once, came a vision of the 
double use to be made of the photographs. 

If they were sent to Julia, would she not first 
rush to her father, and, in attempting to convince 
him of Mademoiselle de Rostrenan’s real iden- 
tity, be sure to quarrel with him? Then, acting 
on the suggestion that Garvie had followed his 
model to Brittany, to pursuade her back to him, 
would she not have an indignant scene with Gar- 
vie, and shaking the Tremalo dust off her shoes. 


201 


ON THE WARPATH 


hurry back to Paris, and to the waiting arms of 
her faithful friend? 

‘Tt would be best to get her away on a little 
tour as soon as possible,’’ that lady reflected, in 
a blissful day-dream. ‘‘Let me see, it will be 
just the right time for Venice, and from there we 
could go to the Italian Lakes. I haven’t had a 
trip like that for years,” and with a smile of an- 
ticipation, Mrs. Mallock spread forth her best 
letter-paper. 


202 


XIX 

THE SERPENT IN EDEN 

J ULIA was right; as soon as Mr. Praed 
had recovered his temper, his conscience 
troubled him sorely about Julia. It had 
been as great a shock to him as to her 
to find that his daughter, the companion of so 
many journeys, was no longer welcome to come 
to him when she chose. 

When he knocked at her bedroom door before 
dinner, he had resolved to eat the necessary 
amount of humble-pie. It was all the greater re- 
lief to find, instead of a tearfully accusing or for- 
giving daughter lying down with a headache, a 
girl freshly dressed in white serge, radiant with 
exercise and the interest of her new surroundings. 

She had wheeled a big armchair to the window 
which overlooked the Place and now sat enthroned 
there, gazing down in great content on the pano- 
rama of evening village life. As Mr. Praed stood 
in the doorway, he asked with brusque awkward- 
ness: 

‘'Got settled all right, eh, Julia ?’’ 

Their fashions with each other had never 
been expansive, and on both sides this was taken 
as full amende honorable. 


203 


THE SERPENT IN EDEN 


“Oh, splendid,” was her gay answer. “I 
haven’t felt so happy since I lost sight of the 
Rockies. Mr. Garvie took me the lovliest walk 
through the fields, up to the ruins of a castle that 
was built long before Columbus discovered Amer- 
ica. Just think of that! And then we went on 
until we came to pine woods, real pine woods, 
with big grey rocks, just like home. And look at 
those primroses and bluebells I picked, all grow- 
ing wild in the fields. And Pm as hungry as ever 
I can be, and that bell means dinner, doesn’t it ?” 

“It does, and I’d keep some breath for it, if I 
were you,” and Mr. Praed laid his hand on the 
one she had slipped through his arm, with a 
greater sense of well-being than he had known the 
last two days. 

Surely, such a nice, sensible girl as his Julie 
couldn’t help making friends with Mam’selle, and 
what an ass he had been not to remember that 
nothing could better help on his pet scheme of a 
match between Julia and Garvie than such days in 
each other’s company. Here, when they had most 
likely been thinking of nothing save enjoying 
themselves together as young folks did, he, like an 
old fool, had been suspecting them of all sorts of 
schemes against himself. 

“I must be getting into my dotage,” he decided, 
little guessing how many people were agreed with 
him on that point. And so it was a cheerful party 
of three that sat down to one of Marie Jeanne’s 
best dinners in the dark inn dining-room, pan- 


204 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 

elled with sketches by men, some of whom were 
already known in New York and Paris. After 
dinner, they sat before the hotel door in the golden 
twilight, that brought out strange blue shadows 
on the white house fronts, and sombred the en- 
circling hills into velvety duskiness. 

The drowsy murmur of the river was heard at 
intervals between the shrill piping of the binous 
in the open market-shed, where the unending 
gavotte was being danced by old and young, with 
mirthless faces and uncouth movements. The 
shoemaker’s daughter had been married, and a 
three days’ feast was being held. 

Julia had strolled over with the two men to 
have a look at this bit of old-world festivity. The 
two pipers sat on chairs raised on a platform of 
barrels and loose boards, and one or two oil lamps 
in brackets against the pillars gave enough light 
to dance by. The women were nearly all in their 
Sunday clothes. Their broad white collars and 
the stiff wings of their caps were lace-edged, and 
their black bodices shone with silver braid and 
many-coloured embroidery. 

‘T must have a dress like that,” Julia decided, 
as they returned to the comparative quiet of their 
bench. ‘Tt’s strange,” she went on in a dreamy 
tone, ‘That unlike as this all is, it somehow re- 
minds me of home, and sitting on the verandah, 
and hearing the miners’ children playing around 
their houses, and the river gurgling down in the 
gulch. Do you remember old Joe’s concertina, 


205 


THE SERPENT IN EDEN 


father? It didn’t sound unlike those bagpipes 
over there, did it ? Oh, it will be nice to get home 
and see it all again !” 

‘‘Why, Julie,” protested her father, not over- 
pleased. “I thought you couldn’t have enough of 
everything over here.” 

“So did I, not so long ago,” answered Julia. 
“But I think getting away from the towns has 
shewn me how homesick I am. I suppose the 
maples will be turning when we get home, father.” 

“How can I tell?” was the testy retort. “If 
you had ever worked as hard as I have, you 
wouldn’t be in such a hurry to end the first holi- 
day of your life.” 

Julia had been talking in accordance with a 
suggestion of Garvie’s, that she should try to turn 
her father’s mind back into the familiar channels 
of his home life and interests. 

Garvie now came to her rescue with a welcome 
diversion, “Have you been in England yet, Mr. 
Praed?” 

“No,” was the interested answer, “and that’s 
a thing as I’ve been planning all along to do this 
summer. I’ve been saving it up, on purpose. 
London now, one couldn’t get anything better 
than that, I fancy. And then there’s the country 
my father came from — that’s in the north — York- 
shire, that is. I want to see the old farm as he 
used to tell me about, and the graves of the Praeds 
for generations. For we come of decent farmer 
stock, sir, though my father did get contrary over 

206 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


something when he was only a boy, and went off 
with not much more than the clothes he stood in. 
Well, I haven’t been a discredit to him or to them, 
and there’s a town out there, called after me, as 
will make our name live in the new country.” 

His voice had grown reminiscent, and, as he 
ended, the others did not break in on his train of 
thought. 

Presently Garvie turned to Julia, saying, “Are 
you good for a day’s fishing to-morrow ? Coffee 
at seven, and an early start. I’ve ordered the 
little cart at half-past seven, to drive to the second 
mill. There you will find rocks and woods to 
your heart’s content. It’s all wild country up the 
river.” 

“Oh how lovely!” Julia cried, “But how did 
you know I fished?” 

“Do not you remember shewing me a photo of 
your struggle with a salmon ? I brought an extra 
rod on purpose,” he triumphed. 

A softly breathed “Oh,” was her only comment, 
but it appeared to satisfy Garvie. 

With an afterthought of duty, Julia appealed 
to her father, “Couldn’t I help you, at the chateau 
to-morrow father ? Or would you like to take me 
a run round the neighbourhood in your auto ?” 

“Eh, what?” and the old man roused himself 
from rosy visions. “No, no. I’d better be going 
down alone to the castle to-morrow. That is,” 
with a touch of compunction, “unless you’re spe- 
cially wanting me, Julia.” 


207 


THE SERPENT IN EDEN 


“Oh no, don’t bother about me, father. Mr. 
Garvie says that he will take me fishing,” she re- 
sponded demurely. 

Two days passed, with weather all that April 
can be on those southern shores of Brittany. 

Each golden hour of daylight was, for Julia, 
full of the joy of existence. Too proud to give 
Garvie any chance of feeling her presence a drag, 
she one day made excuses to let him go off alone 
sallying forth soon after to explore the country on 
her own account. Climbing the steep orchard 
bank behind the hotel, she found herself out on 
the open hill country, where the bare granite crop- 
ped up every here and there through its golden 
veil of gorse and broom. 

Below her wound the river, a blue streak be- 
tween red-brown mud banks, banks that had been 
painted in every variety of light by every variety 
of artist. 

At length she found herself leaving the barren 
heights, and descending into a little slope of or- 
chard that embosomed a tiny gem of a grey Gothic 
chapel. Making for this, she came sharply round 
a corner on Garvie, white umbrella, easel and all, 
absorbed in painting a bank where the wild flow- 
ers had run riot. A mutual word of surprise was 
followed by a laugh. 

“So this is what letters to write means. No 
sooner is my back turned than you set off on your 
own account, regardless of the dangers of savage 
old pigs in the woods, of wicked sailor-men on the 

2o8j 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


roads. Are you aware that the valley you have 
just passed is the famous one where the wolf ate 
the postman ?” Garvie demanded. 

“Eve walked wilder places than this alone/’ she 
asserted gaily. 

‘‘But why this taste for solitude? What had I 
done to be banished?” he persisted, half in jest. 

“O I thought you might be getting tired of 
me,” Julia said, with a blush and laugh. 

‘T do not ask for people’s company if I am tired 
of them,” he answered with a look into her eyes. 
“Come now, for punishment, you shall sit on that 
bank and pose for me as the spirit of the spring 
morning, as the ‘joy of life unquestioned.’ That 
white serge will carry on the scheme of colour to 
perfection. How is it that you always wear just 
the suitable thing ?” 

Julia smiled responsive. Why does a woman 
so love praise of her clothes from a man? Is it 
that in her mind, she makes them a subtle express- 
ion of herself? 

“And if you are very good,” Garvie went on, 
“you shall have a share of my lunch. It is over 
there, under the apple-tree.” 

“Ah, but I’ve got some of my own,” she tri- 
umphed, producing a neat sandwich-case. 

“There is no catching you at a disadvantage,” 
he grumbled, though seeming well pleased. And 
this was the last of Julia’s efforts at self-reliance, 
for the present. 

Was she selfish in forgetting the coming trou- 
209 


THE SERPENT IN EDEN 


ble between her father and herself? Perhaps so, 
but then for some wise purpose of her own, Na- 
ture has provided youth with the armour of ego- 
tism. How else could the young find courage for 
the ventures they must essay? Later they will 
learn to sympathize and heal. 

And so a day or two passed, and one evening 
at bedtime, as the three came in from the quay 
where they had been lounging, Mr. Praed handed 
Julia a letter, saying : ‘T clean forget it when the 
postman brought it this afternoon. Seems heavy.” 

Seeing the Paris stamp, Julia waited until she 
had reached her room to open it. It was from 
Mrs. Mallock, and contained a little package of 
photographs which could be nothing of much in- 
terest. So she took a stroll about her room, be- 
stowed a caressing glance on a little study which 
Garvie had given her, and then, letting down her 
hair, proceeded to brush it and read the letter at 
the same time, without looking at the photo- 
graphs. 

But soon her brush lay on the table disregarded, 
and with painfully intent face, she was staring at 
the letter as though it were some treacherous 
thing, with power to wound. And so it had, for it 
ran thus : 

My Dearest Julia — Feeling sure that you cannot but 
understand how warm is my interest in you, how heart- 
felt my gratitude for the many kindnesses shewn by 
you and your father to a poor wanderer, I am taking 
the risk of being suspected of mischief-making, and 
writing to warn you of what I fear is treachery. These 
enclosed photographs came into my hands yesterday. 


210 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


and will, I think, tell their own tale. I do not know’ 
whose the writing on them is. I have never seen Mr. 
Garvie’s — but you must see for yourself what they 
mean. 

You may remember Mr. Garvie’s irritation at my 
harmless little joke about his well-known, red-haired 
model. Here you see her in street dress, and as he 
has painted her for this year’s Salon — what the third 
picture means you may guess better than I. I have 
heard, as gossip, that his leaving Paris at such an 
unusual season was due to her sudden vanishing. It 
is said that he is gone in search of her, so if you come 
across him Id-bas, she may not be very far away. Can 
the third picture mean that this clever young woman is 
now posing as a certain orphan chatelaine? 

I should hate, dear girl, for you to think me inter- 
fering, but I feel it my womanly duty to tell you that 
Mr. Garvie has been boasting of his approaching mar- 
riage with an heiress — apparently the model would be 
no bar to that. 

Dear Julia, do send me one little line to tell me that 
you appreciate the honesty of my motives. Longing to 
see you back in Paris, always your loving friend, 

Maud Mallock. 

Once or twice during the reading of this prec- 
ious epistle, Julia had paused to study with painful 
eagerness the three photographs which lay before 
her. Never in all her young life had she known 
such a fierce pang of hatred as came over her 
while she met that sombre stare of the pictured 
face. So this was Mr. Garvie's model, of whom 
she had so often said to herself that she would 
not think. 

Could it be also, the mysterious girl down at 
Rosbraz against whom he himself had warned 
her? Oh! (with a sudden cry of pain) she re- 
membered how he had urged her to try to get her 
father away without any open exposure. That 


211 


THE SERPENT IN EDEN 


was what she had been brought here for, then. 
He might have spared her that indignity. But 
there was worse than that; and with eager eyes 
she turned back to where Mrs. Mallock told of 
Garvie's boasts. She was now quite past reason- 
ing as to the value of Mrs. Mallock’s testimony, 
or any motive for such action on Garvie’s part. 
A primitive passion of jealousy swept her away. 

O how happy she had been these last few days, 
and, as if to remind her of it, a few white violets, 
which Garvie had that afternoon picked for her, 
dropped faded from her dress and hid the cruel 
eyes staring up at her. At sight of them, the 
tempest of her tears was unloosed, and, like a 
child grieving for a broken toy, she mourned her 
lost faith and hopes. 

But there was sterner stuff than that of a love- 
lorn maiden in this child of western solitudes. 
Before she lay down that night she had planned 
out a line of action for the next day. 

First of all, she must see, face to face, this girl 
wdio was hiding herself down at Rosbraz. If her 
father would not take her to the chateau, she 
w^ould go alone, and somehow force an entrance, 
even if it were to a sick-room. A woman could 
not be so easily shut out as a man. 

One glance would tell her what she wanted to 
know. If this so-called Mademoiselle de Ros- 
trenan proved to be the girl in the photograph, 
she would lose no time in confronting Garvie. 
Ignoring any personal question betw^een him and 


212 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


her, she would demand that he immediately keep 
his promise, by denouncing this audacious fraud 
upon her father, and threaten to do it alone, if he 
failed her. Then came the question whether she 
could convince her father, or would only arouse 
his anger. Well, if she failed, she would cable 
for her eldest brother to come to the rescue, and 
then, whatever happened, she would return with 
him to her beloved mountains, and never leave 
them again. And with this vision of perpetual 
hermithood, she strove to console her sore heart. 

The first light of dawn was stealing into the 
room before she dropped asleep, the tears still on 
her cheeks. 


213 


XX 

THE CHATEAU 

M eanwhile, how were the mysteri- 
ous tenants of the chateau at Rosbraz 
faring? There were no signs of life 
at the little landing amongst the big 
boulders. None of the people from the coast- 
guard station opposite now drew up their craft 
there. As the boats, laden with sand or fish, 
went up with the tide to Tremalo, sweeping close 
around the wooded point from which the chateau 
faced the river, the sea-folk would cross them- 
selves, and mutter, “The cursed Jews come even 
here, nowadays. No wonder the sardine fishing 
fails.” 

A walled-in courtyard faced south, though its 
great entrance was gateless now, and here, on the 
steps of the doorway with its arched Gothic fret- 
work, sat the incongruous figure of Virginie La- 
pierre, in a soiled cream-coloured dressing-gown, 
with fluttering green ribbons. Her wonderful 
hair fell unkempt about her shoulders, her high- 
heeled shoes were down at the heel, and it was 
only her feline grace that saved her from utter 
sordidness of aspect. Basking like a cat in the 
early sunshine, she was nibbling at a brioche 


214 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


which she dipped in the bowl of chocolate on her 
knees. 

A little, bent old woman, of eastern aspect, her 
head covered with a black silk handkerchief, ap- 
peared in the doorway, from whence great ladies 
had watched crusaders go forth to war. 

‘‘Ah, marraine, it’s lucky that you can make 
Austrian bread. I should starve if I had to eat 
their sour stuff here,” was the girl’s greeting. 

“Folly!” snapped the old woman. “As if we 
hadn’t both eaten black bread in our day. As if 
we may not have to eat it again. Talk no more 
nonsense, but listen. Louis has been to the post 
and brought a letter. There are orders, sharp 
enough. Since your being ill has not hurried that 
old fool, you are to be well and see him again — 
him and his catalogue.” 

‘'Sapristir came in a disgusted tone from Vir- 
ginie. 

“But with the daughter and that Monsieur 
Garvie about, we cannot be too careful,” the old 
woman went on. “You are to do all you can to 
hurry the bonhomme into finishing up the busi- 
ness, and we are to be ready to leave at any mo- 
ment, by sea perhaps, as soon as the cheque is 
signed. Heavenly powers ! If I should be as sea- 
sick as I was in coming !” 

Virginie meditated a moment in perplexity. 
“This is a new course he is steering,” she mut- 
tered. 

The old woman answered what she had left 

215 


THE CHATEAU 


unspoken. ‘‘Yes, I fancied you were to have 
fooled the old man to the top of his bent, and 
that we should have lived in riches. But I doubt 
if he thought you clever enough.” 

Virginie flushed angrily. “Clever or not, I 
could do it now, if 1 chose,” was her sullen an- 
swer. “But I don’t want to be bothered with the 
old fool. I can get all I want in Paris among the 
artists, without being bored to death as I am 
here,” and in proof of the fact, she yawned pro- 
digiously. 

“You leave the artists alone, just now,” was 
the sharp mandate. “You are more pig-headed 
than a child of ten. When you know that you 
should not be seen you were roaming the woods 
yesterday looking for that American.” 

“I was not,” protested Virginie with a scowl, 
but the old woman went on : 

“And now, here you are, in broad daylight, 
where anyone might come along and see you ; the 
old fool himself, who knows, and you looking like 
nothing save a girl from the Quarter.” 

“Well, what else ami?” 

“And hardly the greatest imbecile of a for- 
eigner could suppose that the lady of a chateau 
would wear dressing-gown and slippers like 
yours, or never put a comb near her head in the 
morning. What if I write to tell him how you 
are risking his plans?” 

The threat had an instant effect. Paling, the 
girl caught at her skirt, pleading : “Oh, marraine, 

216 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


you would never do that ? He would be so angry 
with me.” 

A spark of something like affection shone in the 
eyes of the old hag, as she answered briskly, 
“Well, then, be good and attend to the task set 
you. You can be sharp enough when you choose. 
And get indoors now and dress like the girl in 
the picture he gave you to copy. You’d look like 
a fine fool if the old man were to come puffing up 
the avenue in his machine. And see here,” as 
Virginie moved to obey her, “you are to tell him 
that your aunt in Auvergne has written offering 
you a home, and that you must get this business 
settled and go. Ah, it is too bad that you may not 
get a few diamonds out of him first ; but such are 
the orders. You are to try for nothing more after 
the bargain is made.” 

“And Heaven knows, I never wanted him,” 
Virginie reiterated in a last protest, as she re- 
treated within. 

Meanwhile Julia, having accomplished her aim, 
was speeding with her father along the road to 
Rosbraz. 

Instead of going down as usual to the dining- 
room for coffee, she had a tray brought up to her 
bedroom, sending to Garvie a little note to say 
that she could not go on their planned expedition, 
and to her father a message asking him to come 
and see her. 

There are dressing-gowns and dressing-gowns, 
and Julia’s drapery of white crepe was a very dif- 


217 


THE CHATEAU 


ferent affair from poor Virginie’s dingy flannel. 
As different were the two faces above the gar- 
ments. Though some of the first young hopeful- 
ness had gone from Julia’s face since yesterday, it 
was replaced by a courageous self-control, far re- 
moved from the reckless cynicism of the cairn- 
gorm eyes and red lips. 

Sitting at her open window with her break- 
fast-tray on a table beside her, Julia looked win- 
some enough to persuade a man to anything. 
But at her appeal to take her to Rosbraz, Mr. 
Praed bristled up suspiciously, and it required 
all her powers of persuasion to get her way. 

She succeeded at last, and dressed for the 
drive, taking, however, one or two peeps through 
the curtains to watch Garvie going down the 
Place, his painting-traps over his shoulder. Never 
had she liked his looks better than in that shabby 
corduroy jacket and broad-brimmed Panama. A 
few tears fell at thought of the flower-fringed or- 
chard, where she was to have spent the day with 
him. 

Brushing them proudly aside, she hardened 
her heart by scoffing to herself. ''One model is 
surely enough for any man. I could let him have 
my white serge if he wants it for the red-haired 
girl, to ‘carry on the scheme of colour,’ as he 
said.” 

There was no white serge to-day, only a busi- 
ness-like grey dust-cloak, when she took her place 
beside her father. If only the day had not been 

218 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


so joyous a one she could have borne it better, she 
thought, as they crossed the bridge beyond which 
the river rippled in the sunshine. 

Up the hill they went, and turned seaward into 
the open country, where every apple tree was a 
mass of crimson buds, with here and there an open 
pink blossom ; and the great grey chestnut trunks 
were crowned with domes of richest green. Above 
the young wheat hung larks in an ecstasy of song, 
and from the hillsides came the warm, soft scent 
of the gorse. Everything, save herself, glowed 
with young life and happiness. 

From the meadows they skirted a belt of pine 
lands that have stood untouched since the days 
when they sheltered Druid rites. 

‘‘There’s the castle,” Mr. Praed said with an 
air of proprietorship, and, rising above masses o£ 
chestnut woods, Julia saw with a thrill of nervous 
anticipation, the pointed turret-tops of Rosbraz. 
A neglected avenue, sloping up under stately 
chestnut trees to the sturdy grey pile that spoke of 
days of siege and foray. Then the car stopped, and 
they picked their way along a rough path to the 
dilapidated courtyard with its flanking outbuild- 
ings. Every detail impressed itself on Julia’s 
state of nervous expectation, and she wondered 
why the noble family of Rostrenan had been so 
little endowed with a sense of tidiness. 

In the doorway stood the bent form of Mere 
Suzanne, who, with her parchment face and 


219 


THE CHATEAU 


snakelike eyes, was not a figure to reassure a 
nervous stranger. 

At their approach she began in a queer voice 
a jargon of broken English. ‘'Ah, M’sieur 
has fetched the pretty demoiselle to Ros- 
braz. But my petite will be glad ! She goes bet- 
ter — she can see and talk to-day. M’sieur will 
come,’’ and with a beckoning hand, she turned 
to lead them within. 

A glance at her father showed Julia that he 
was strangely agitated. As in a dream she fol- 
lowed through the great hall, with its yawning 
chimneys and raftered roof lost in the shadows. 
Here were the ghostly figures of armour that she 
had jested about, and vaguely pictured tapestries, 
and heavy bits of carved oaken furniture. 

Without pausing to call her attention to these, 
her father hurried after Mere Suzanne up the 
dark winding stairs, built, like all the rest of the 
chateau, as though for a race of Cyclops. 

Never would Julia forget the sight that met 
her as she emerged from the shadows of the stair- 
way into the comparative brightness of a long gal- 
lery, running the whole length of the chateau 
front, its Gothic windows letting in the morning 
sunshine. Full in the light stood the embodiment 
of her disturbed night visions. There were the 
masses of red hair, curbed into demureness ; there 
was the plain black dress emphasizing the pallor 
of the face, and the red line of lips ; and yes, there 
was the hostile stare that recalled a wild-cat she 


220 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


had seen brought to bay in its mountain lair. The 
very pose was the same as in the photograph. 

There could be no further doubt that Mademoi- 
selle de Rostrenan was Virginie Lapierre, the 
Paris model. 

An indignant shame for her father was Julia’s 
first definite sensation, as she marked the feeling 
in his voice. 

‘‘Now this is something like, Mam’selle,” he 
began, “to see you back here among the things. 
But we won’t have you overdoing it again in a 
hurry. And here’s Julie as I’ve told you about, 
come to see you herself. And I hope you two 
girls is going to be good friends — I’m sure, 
Julie — ” and he turned to his daughter with what 
was meant for a threat, but was only an appeal, in 
his voice. Even the masculine certainty that his 
women folk cannot help liking the object of his 
affections, failed him in that crucial moment. 

“I’m damn glad to see you,” came the incon- 
gruous words of greeting, in broken English, as 
the model held out her hand. 

Julia could not hide a little start, as she forced 
herself to put her hand into the clawlike one out- 
stretched. 

“There, there, Mam’selle,” Mr. Praed protested 
with an awkward laugh. “There’s that word 
again as I told you English ladies don’t use, nor 
American either, for the matter of that. You see, 
Julie, Mam’selle had a bad lot for an English 
teacher; at least, he must have been all that to 


221 


THE CHATEAU 


have ever allowed a girl to hear such words, and 
she, knowing no better, can’t all at once get out of 
the way of using them. Not that we mind, do 
we ?” 

The wistfulness of this explanation brought 
a lump to Julia’s throat. How could these peo- 
ple dare to so treat her father. 

Then and there, she began her fight for him, 
as she said, ‘^Oh, not at all. Then you were not 
brought up in a convent. Mademoiselle?” 

A flash of impatience under the assumed meek- 
ness told that her shot had gone home. 

‘‘Alas, my dear father would not have me go. 
We were always — what you say — ensemble , the 
strange creature answered in studied tones of woe. 
It was then that Julia noticed the newness of the 
crepe-trimmed dress. It could hardly have been 
worn half-a-dozen times. 

“There, there,” Mr. Praed put in testily, “don’t 
be reminding the poor girl of painful things, Julia. 
And see here, Mam’selle,” his voice softening on 
the word, “don’t you be a tiring of yourself to-day 
with the catalogue, and you just out of bed.” 

With a gentle touch he took a paper out of the 
girl’s hand, and laid it on a table, where Julia saw 
that written lists were spread out. 

“Here now,” Mr. Praed went on, pushing for- 
ward a dilapidated Louis Quinze arm chair, “you 
just sit yourself down and be comfortable, while 
I g^ive Julia a peep round at all these old family 
things of yours.” 


222 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Julia had before this noticed that the gallery 
was well filled with a semblance of the accumu- 
lated treasures pertaining to an ancestral home. 
The walls were hung with tapestry, between 
which were trophies of arms, and here and there 
a dim old portrait. Great carved chests were 
loaded with bright-coloured pottery, and one 
splendid black oak cabinet held nothing but Celtic 
and Merovingian ornaments, fibulas, and torques 
in gold and silver. 

As the red-haired girl sank languidly into the 
offered chair, sniffing at a smelling-bottle, Julia’s 
keenest desire was to turn on her with contemptu- 
ous words of denouncement. Keeping a tight rein 
on herself, she looked from one object to another 
as her father complacently pointed them out. 

‘‘How well it was all done,” she kept saying to 
herself, wondering whether this girl had been ca- 
pable of the arrangement, or if there had been 
others behind her. 

“And them china dishes with the snakes and 
frogs on them,” said Mr. Praed, pointing to some 
Palissy ware, “is one of the rarest kinds ever made 
in France. What did you say a dish like them 
sold for in Paris, Mam’selle?” 

‘‘Sacristi! The Cluny museum did buy one last 
year for ten thousand francs.” 

Julia did not know that French ladies do not 
say but she noted the parrot-like repe- 

tition of the words, as with a tiresome lesson. 

“I don’t think that they are as pretty as the 


223 


THE CHATEAU 


things they make at Sevres/’ she murmured in an 
attempt at intelligent connoisseurship. 

She and her father had made an expedition to 
the Sevres factory and had been much interested 
thereby. 

‘‘Sevres!” snorted Mr. Praed. “Them things 
were all modern, and these were made by one of 
the first Protestants as was ever in France. They 
wanted to burn him, didn’t they, Mam’selle?” he 
appealed. 

“So said my dear father. What should I 
know?” was softly breathed from the arm chair. 

“Exactly so,” Mr. Praed agreed, and a momen- 
tary silence fell upon the little party. 

The poor man had a disappointed consciousness 
that the visit was becoming an open failure. 

It was all Julia’s fault, he thought. Why 
couldn’t she be bright and talk away as she always 
did, instead of standing there like a great school- 
girl. 

A desperate desire to save the situation led him 
on to reveal his precious secret. He would wake 
these girls up, he said to himself. 

“I was thinking, Mam’selle, that now Julie is 
here, it might be just as wxll to shew her every- 
thing. She’s a clever girl and wouldn’t go talk- 
ing to other people about things as we want to 
keep to ourselves — ” 

Ourselves ! So it had come to her father hav- 
ing secrets from her with this creature of the 
Paris streets! Stung into protest, Julia spoke 


224 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


quickly, ‘‘Oh, please don’t let me interfere with 
any secrets,” and stepping across to one of the 
narrow casements, she stood looking down on the 
green sea of encircling chestnut woods, and on the 
blue streak of river beyond. It was some solace 
to look on the outer world and long to be away, 
anywhere in the pure air uncontaminated by this 
woman. 

She thus lost sight of the girl’s start of alarm, 
followed by a malicious grin. 

Virginie was saying to herself, “This should 
finish up the tiresome affair.” What she did was 
to rise with the languid grace learnt in posing 
under trained eyes, saying, with purring softness, 
and a ludicrous imitation of some Irish artist’s 
brogue : 

“Devil a bit of a secret is there from your 
daughter in Rostrenan, Monsieur.” 

Julia had turned from the window and now 
broke into an irrepressible laugh. She knew it 
was undignified, but she could not help it. The 
contrast between manner and words was too ludi- 
crous. 

“Dear, dear!” her father fretted, but uncon- 
scious of her mistake, Virginie swept across the 
room to a recess, and drawing back a heavy 
stamped velvet curtain, revealed a row of shelves 
on which stood eight or ten silver bowls and vases. 

“Behold the Rostrenan treasure,” said the girl 
with a theatrical gesture, and poor Mr. Praed 
puffed his admiration. 


225 


THE CHATEAU 


A few weeks ago, Mr. Praed had, with Julia, 
hunted out the Bosco-reale silver in the Louvre, 
and having seen it, enabled her to guess at the 
rarity and value of the things before her. Their 
beauty she felt. 

‘‘But these must be worth a fortune,” she mur- 
mured, understanding at last the magnitude of 
the affair. 

A laugh of triumph came from Virginie, and 
Mr. Praed clapped his hands together emphati- 
cally, shouting, “That's it, my girl. You've hit 
the right nail on the head, this time,” and then 
he went on to repeat Britski's carefully prepared 
story of the possibility of government confisca- 
tion, the Prefet's persecution of the Rostrenans 
because of their Royalist sympathies, and the con- 
sequent need of secrecy. 

Julia followed the tale intently, but could de- 
tect no inaccuracies. “Mr. Garvie will know,” 
she said to herself, before she remembered that 
henceforth there was to be no more appealing to 
Mr. Garvie. 

As if he read her thoughts, her father said, 
“And mind now, there's to be no talking about 
this, not even to Mr. Garvie, until I’ve got all this 
silver shipped from Nantes or Brest. That's what 
I'm a-hanging on here for, and that's why I 
wasn't too pleased to have Garvie poking round 
and asking questions.” He paused with a vague 
sense of saying the wrong thing. 

A flush was on Julia's face, but she looked 


226 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


steadily into the mocking eyes confronting her, 
conscious of their malevolence. In that moment 
she knew that this girl hated her as a rival, and 
the knowledge was exceedingly bitter to her pride. 

‘T am not likely to trouble Mr. Garvie with 
our affairs,” she said gravely, “and I think, father, 
we have tired this young lady enough for to-day.” 

Fortunately, her enemy only wished to end the 
interview. 

“I am desolee/* she sighed, “that I am so stu- 
pid, but I cannot think well yet.” 

This was enough. Even Mr. Praed was glad 
of a chance to separate, and with many cautions 
to rest, bade farewell to his divinity. 

“Pll take a run down this afternoon,” Julia 
heard him say behind her, but she did not care. 
Neither did she care that he was surly all the way 
back. 

Her enemy’s parting words rang in her ear, 
“You will come again to visit me, dear made- 
moiselle, finest ce pasT 

What an insult they seemed. 


227 


XXI 

DISCORD 

G ARVIE’S painting in the flower mead- 
ow did not make much progress that 
morning. The vaguely sketched 
white figure mocked him with its 
illusiveness, and in momentary irritation he 
seized a pochard and began a fresh study. 

Eventually this was scraped out, for to-day 
was one of those destined to see no success. Reso- 
lute against the desire to give in and go back to 
dejeuner^ he finally stretched himself on the grass 
and took refuge in a pipe and in meditation. 

He was by now enough in love with Julia to 
know, with the lover’s sixth sense, that her curt 
note indicated offense, and he pondered most un- 
comfortably over any possible cause. 

It was not so long ago that he had felt it some- 
what noble in him to meditate parting with the 
ideal wife of his dreams, half great lady, half 
sympathetic art-critic, and wholly beautiful and 
loving, in favour of this untrained Canadian girl ; 
and now here he was, dismally contemplating his 
abandoned work, and realizing that henceforth 
life would be a poorer, drearier thing, if it were 
to be spent without her. If ever success had made 


228 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


him a bit fastidious, he was atoning for it now, 
certainly to his present discomfort, probably to 
the eventual good of his soul. He could not yield 
to offended dignity when he knew that Julia stood 
in need of his help ; and so, with self well in abey- 
ance, he vowed to do all that man honestly could 
to make her his wife. 

This point settled, he came to details. He 
longed to hurry back to the hotel and lie in wait 
for an interview, but his boy had just brought his 
lunch, and he felt bound to go through the form 
of eating it. 

He was pretty sure that Julia would not suc- 
ceed in enticing her father into an all-day expedi- 
tion, and that he had the best chance of finding 
her about the hotel in the after dejeuner hour. 

So the small boy Louis was disappointed of his 
usual half-hour's gossip over the wonders of the 
outside world while his patron smoked a cigarette, 
and was hurried off instead with his basket. 

As soon as he was out of sight, Garvie packed 
his painting things and started for home. Luck 
favoured him, for as he came along the shore path 
where the river narrowed in amidst its grey boul- 
ders, he happened to look across to a rocky, pine- 
crowned knoll where he and Julia had once or 
twice sat and talked. There he spied above the 
gorse-bushes, a red spot which he knew to be a 
poppy-wreathed hat worn by Julia Praed. 

It did not take him long to deposit his painting- 
traps, and then start across the bridge and along 


229 


DISCORD 


the quay in pursuit of his game. The path among 
the gorse bushes rose so abruptly that presently 
he found himself looking up into the face of Julia, 
where she sat on a little grassy patch. Yes, his 
fears were right. There was a storm-cloud in the 
sombre eyes that met his without any of their old 
glad light. 

Forgetting his prepared greeting, he demanded 
abruptly, “You are ill?” 

Her society mask was over her face as she made 
quiet answer, “111 ? No, I am never ill.” 

He was on the level now, and flung himself 
down beside her, with the words, “Why are you 
so pale then, and why did you throw me over this 
morning?” 

This carrying the war into Africa roused her 
into a counter-attack, though with pride sounding 
its tocsin at her heart. “If I am pale, it may be 
because I am worried. I could not go with you 
this morning, because — well, that will wait.” 

“No, let me have it now. You must have had 
some reason,” he persisted, choking down his 
sense of injury. 

“If you want the reason, you shall have it. 
There it is.” 

Her voice hardened as she handed him the 
packet of photographs which she had been holding 
in her hands. As he opened it, she added, “I went 
to Rosbraz this morning to see if this Mademoi- 
selle de Rostrenan were really Virginie Lapierre, 
the Paris model.” 


230 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Her words revealed to Garvie the full measure 
of his mistake in not making the whole story 
known to her. 

‘‘And you are angry with me for not telling 
you he asked, with insistent eyes on her face. 

“I have no right to be angry,” she said with a 
tremour that told of hurried heart-beats, “but I 
have a right to decide not to trouble you any more 
with my affairs.” 

“No, you have no right,” he broke out hotly, 
“to banish me from your friendship without a rea- 
son. You did trust me — ” 

“And while I trusted you,” she interrupted, let- 
ting loose her anger, “you talked to me about this 
girl, all the time hiding from me that she was an 
old friend of yours. You wonT deny that you 
knew who she was, I suppose?” 

“I found it out within an hour of my arrival, 
when I met her at the postoffice door,” he an- 
swered with more dignity. “But may I venture 
to protest that the term ‘old friend’ scarcely suits 
my model?” 

“Use any word you like. ,What do I know of 
it ?” she put in scornfully. 

“Why should I have told you anything about 
the poor creature,” he went on with more vehe- 
mence. “What have you to do with such as she ?” 

“It looks as if I had a good deal,” was her 
dry comment. 

“I would have kept you apart if I could.” 

“So it seems. I suppose it was on her account 


231 


DISCORD 


you advised me to try to get my father away 
without any open exposure.” 

“That is hardly fair, Julia,” he said, and the 
quiet words hurt her sorely. “I confess that I do 
pity her,” he had the courage to acknowledge. “I 
have good reasons for believing that she is a tool 
in cleverer hands, and I hoped to use my influence 
to make her give up the game, only I have not 
been able to get at her.” 

Julia rose, and poised herself for departure, as 
she said, “I am sorry if our little excursions have 
hindered your missionary work. I am sure you 
can influence her all right, and hope for poor 
father^s sake you’ll soon choose to do it.” 

Gar vie jumped up and stood staring at her 
aghast. 

Could this haughty young woman, who taunted 
him with such finished insolence, be that same un- 
disciplined girl who a few weeks ago had taken 
his word for law? He was not the first man to 
wonder at the swift maturing of a woman under 
the force of experience. 

“Wait,” he said in so peremptory a tone that 
she involuntarily paused. “Can’t you see that by 
quarreling with me you may be playing into the 
hands of whoever sent you those photos? Who 
was it, by-the-bye, Mrs. Mallock?” 

Julia’s start told him that he had guessed cor- 
rectly. The suggestion that she needed his help 
was so true that it stiffened her pride against 
yielding. 


232 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


‘‘And if it were ?” she asked. 

“Surely you would not take her word against 
mine ? What can I do to convince you that your 
interest counts with me before everything ?” 

Under any other circumstances he would hardly 
have smothered his wrath at her behaviour, but, 
for all her determination, there was a forlorn 
youthfulness about her that reminded him of her 
helplessness if he should leave her. 

She looked like a girl of sixteen as she stood 
there in her short navy-blue skirt and loose silk 
blouse, a long braid of hair hanging down her 
shoulders. Her eyes met his steadily, as she said 
slowly : 

“There is only one way to make me that sure 
you were ever my real friend. No, just listen,” 
as he made a movement to interrupt her. “Go to 
my father when he comes back from there to- 
day,” and she slightly waved her hand towards 
the hills that hid the Rosbraz turrets, “and tell 
him all you know about these wretched people 
who are cheating him. All, I mean, that concerns 
us. We have no wish to pry into your secrets,” 
she added. 

Garvie was beginning to realize his helpless- 
ness in face of her attitude. 

“Cannot you see,” he urged, “that I have no 
secrets in the matter? The girl was my model. 
All at once, she deserts me with a half-finished 
picture on my hands, saying she must leave Paris. 


233 


DISCORD 


I know nothing more until I meet her here. Do 
you not believe this?’’ 

Julia lost courage to point out the interpreta- 
tion she put upon those facts. 

daresay it was so,” she admitted, ‘‘but you 
have not answered what I asked you.” 

“You want me to go to your father and tell him 
that this Mam’selle of his is only a Paris model ?” 

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in the word. 

“And you think he will believe me?” 

“He must,” she cried impatiently. “Even he 
cannot help seeing what a sham she is. Why, she 
swore dreadfully at every second word to-day, 
and he kept repeating some ridiculous story about 
her English teacher.” 

Garvie smiled involuntarily. “Poor Virginie’s 
language has a studio flavouring,” he acknowl- 
edged. 

The smile, the familiar name undid any prog- 
ress he may have made towards reconciliation. 

Julia flushed hotly. 

“I suppose he enjoys those kind of things, as I 
see you do. But that is not my affair. And so 
you don’t mean to do what I ask?” 

“Can you not see that if I quarrel with your 
father I only put myself out of court?” Garvie 
remonstrated. “Listen to me for a moment, 
please. There is nothing in those photographs to 
convince Mr. Praed against his will. The best 
chance is to frighten Virginie into giving up the 
game. I will try that first, and if I fail, will go 


234 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


to Paris and threaten Britski with exposure. Does 
that suit you?’' he demanded. 

Julia grew very white and her mouth set in 
ominous lines. 

“You may do whatever you like/’ she said. “I’ll 
play a lone hand in the future, thank you. I ex- 
pect Britski will know how much your threats 
amount to.” 

“He will, I hope,” was the grim retort. “Only 
remember that if your father becomes the laugh- 
ing stock of every Paris and New York paper it 
will be your doing. He may find out that a little 
discretion on your part would have saved him, 
and I leave you to picture his gratitude.” 

“If this is a second try at keeping me quiet, I 
think it is scarcely worth while,” she said, with a 
sudden weariness of it all. 

“You must not say that,” he protested sternly. 

“I shall say what I like,” she flashed out petu- 
lantly. 

“Very well. I shall leave you to do so,” and, 
his patience at an end, he raised his hat, and 
turned to scramble down the knoll, and take him- 
self off to his studio. 

Julia meantime was left to realize the wreckage 
she had made, with much the feelings of a naugh- 
ty child, who, its paroxysm over, looks around ort 
broken, erst-beloved toys, and says “I don’t care,” 
even while it realizes its first heart-ache. 


235 


XXII 

WITCHCRAFT 



ARVIE did not find the latter part of 
the day any pleasanter than had been 
the beginning. 


An equable man, who did not take 
fire easily, he was apt when once roused, to be 
somewhat unyielding. As he marched up the hill 
to his studio, hired from an artist friend in the 
erstwhile manor-house, he was in a fine temper 
at Julia’s injustice ; but hardly had he finished one 
meditative pipe before he began to relent. She 
might be, she certainly was, self-willed and hasty, 
but how helpless, how unskilled to struggle 
against the snares and nets which encompassed 
her and her father. 

It were poor manliness in him to let any per- 
sonal smart drive him to take her at her word and 
go away, leaving her to fight her own battles. 

No, he would set to work now with all his skill 
to get to the bottom of, and break up, this 
wretched conspiracy which threatened harm to 
both father and daughter. When that task was 
fulfilled was the time to ask the girl to become 
his wife. If even then she refused him her trust, 
well, he would be a sadder man for it; but now 


236 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


he must see to his task before claiming his re- 
ward. 

Knight-errantry was a new profession for Gar- 
vie, and though he gave a sigh of regret for the 
pleasant days just passed, yet it was with a certain 
sense of exhilaration that he prepared his scheme 
of warfare. 

The first thing was to get face to face with 
Virginie and do his best to bully her out of the 
neighborhood. It was then about four o’clock, 
and as the old fool — poor Mr. Praed was given 
that name by all parties alike — would most likely 
be still at Rosbraz, he must wait. The tide had 
only begun to rise as he came up from St. Nicho- 
las, so he could get Ivon, the boatman, to take him 
down after dinner, when Mr. Praed would be safe 
at home. Now the question was how Julia would 
meet him at dinner. He sincerely hoped that she 
would have enough sense to hide their difference 
from her father, but, remembering her impetu- 
osity, he doubted it. Dinner time, at once antici- 
pated and dreaded by two people, came at last. 

Garvie and Mr. Praed were in their seats, talk- 
ing across Julia’s empty place when she made her 
appearance. 

A glance shewed Garvie that she had strength- 
ened herself to face the situation with a smart 
gown. ‘‘Always wear a pink dress when you are 
unhappy,” said a female philosopher, and she had 
followed the maxim. 

Her face was smiling, and for all his artist 

237 


WITCHCRAFT 


study of complexions Garvie failed to detect cer- 
tain skillful touches that doctored the traces of re- 
cent tears. 

‘‘Good evening/’ he said, pulling back her chair 
for her, “what a brilliant apparition you are to- 
night.” 

“Oh, well, one must do something,” she an- 
swered disconnectedly, looking round the table, 
and bowing to the local official who belonged to 
the Breton petit noblesse and entertained secret 
longings to essay one of the petit flirtation 
Anglais which he so often saw going on around 
him. He and Mr. Praed were in the habit of 
holding conversations, one speaking in French, 
the other in English, and neither really under- 
standing the other. 

They now embarked on such a social effort, and 
Garvie took advantage of Mr. Praed’s monologue 
to say in an undertone to Julia, “I expect to leave 
for Paris before you are up to-morrow morning. 
Have you any commissions for me ?” 

He had turned in his seat enough to watch the 
bent head and lowered eyelids, but could see no 
change in her face, as she answered, “Nothing, 
thank you. I don’t suppose that we’ll be here 
long ourselves now. I want to get father to come 
to Venice and Florence.” 

“And then I’ll be done with you and all the 
rest of them,” \vas the implied ending to her sen- 
tence. 

“That would be very nice. I suppose you know 
238 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


what Pm going for?” he demanded in the same 
lowered tones. 

“Dear me, no. How could I?” she answered 
innocently, but still without looking up. 

“I am going to try to find some way of ending 
this wretched affair for you. Perhaps if I succeed 
you may have a little higher opinion of me.” 

In the earnestness of his purpose, he had let the 
stiffness go from his voice and its depth made 
Julia tremble nervously. 

What unlucky perversity was it that drove her, 
almost in her own despite to answer lightly, “Oh, 
please don’t trouble. I’ll get along all right, I 
expect.” 

“Is it at seven o’clock you want the dog-cart to- 
morrow morning. Monsieur Garvie ?” came Marie 
Jeanne’s resonant tones in at the doorway. 

“Yes, to catch the express at Bannalec,” he an- 
swered, and then there were explanations to Mr. 
Praed and regrets from the official. The little 
party had acquired a habit of loitering over the 
table, but to-night, as soon as dinner was well 
over, Garvie rose, saying: 

“I must go up to the studio before dark, and 
so had better say good-bye now, or rather an 
revoir, I hope. Good-bye, Miss Praed. I am 
sorry our fishing is over for the present.” 

How much else was over, both thought, as their 
hands met without the warm clasp of friendship. 

Julia felt a quick, hard pressure as hers lay 
limp in his. Then he was gone, and she was con- 


239 


WITCHCRAFT 


fusedly trying to agree in French with Monsieur 
Kerval’s expressed opinion that Monsieur Garvie 
was tres gentil for an artist. The poor man had 
suffered much from varieties of the species. 

Meanwhile Garvie, in an equal tumult of re- 
gret and wrath, was striding down the Place to 
the quay, where his old friend, Ivon the boatman, 
awaited him. 

The tide was brimming high, and the water 
held the picture of sky and hills in its heart. It 
was a relief to leave the noisy evening groups on 
the quay and drift down the river, past the fields 
and the open hillsides of heather and gorse. 

The evening peace soothed Garvie’s smarting 
sense of loss, and he took courage to fix his mind 
hopefully on his next move. 

All sense of compunction towards Virginie was 
gone, and in fear of the harm that she might work 
the girl who would not give him even one kind 
glance at parting, he was her determined enemy. 

Ivon was an old companion of his on many a 
river day, and while content to be silent and watch 
the curves of the current, he was equally ready to 
talk if once started. 

‘‘Rosbraz? Was Monsieur going to land at 
Rosbraz ? Did he not know that there were spies 
there, Jews whom the government had sent to 
watch the farms and see that none of the good 
sisters whom the soldiers had turned out, were 
given shelter at them ? It might not be safe to go 
there at such an hour. What if the heretics were 


240 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


to use a knife? It was easy enough to fling a 
body down into the old well in the courtyard, 
where it would never be heard of again.” 

Garvie laughed. ‘‘Well, stay in your boat, 
Ivon, and you will be quite safe. I am not 
afraid.” 

‘'Dame, it was of you I was thinking, M’sieur,” 
the man answered with a certain rough dignity; 
“though that is not to say that I am not afraid 
of witches and korrigans, and such like powers 
of darkness. And the old woman there is a witch 
for certain. The other day Alain Glue’s children 
met her, and signed themselves as their mothers 
had told them to do, and she made figures with 
her hands at them and strange noises. They ran 
away, and their mother has got them all new scap- 
ulars.” 

“That was very wise,” Garvie commented. 

“But worse than that, M’sieur,” Ivon went on 
earnestly, “they say that this old woman can turn 
into a girl with red lips and green eyes” — Garvie’s 
face became graver — “and that she meets people 
in the woods and bewitches them. There is that 
rich old man at Marie Jeanne’s, who runs about 
the country in the machine. She has put a spell 
on him, so that he cannot go away. She sits 
there and calls him, and he comes, puffing. Do 
not go there, M’sieur.” 

These last words were spoken with desperate 
earnestness. 

Garvie saw that he must explain his visit, if he 


241 


WITCHCRAFT 


wanted to keep the respect of his village friends. 

He wished now that he had walked — it did not 
take more than an hour across country — but it 
was too late to think about that. He knew that 
Ivon was intelligent enough in his way, and 
trusted to making him understand. 

“Look here, Ivon,’’ he began. “I know all 
about this girl with the red lips. She is no witch, 
but she is one of those who make fools of men, 
as she has of this American. I go now to tell her 
something that may frighten her, and make her 
leave him alone, so that his daughter may not be 
unhappy. You see?” 

“Ah, the pretty young lady! As lovely as the 
figure of St. Anne at Auray. You are a 'hrave,^ 
M’sieur Garvie,” was the appreciative answer, 
“but take care to stand well out in the open or 
with your back to a wall. Knives come from 
behind.” 

“There won’t be any knives,” Garvie assured 
him. 

They had rounded the last point, and a soft 
breath of sea- wind met them as they put in 
towards the cove above which the outline of Ros- 
braz towered dark against the sunset, amidst its 
enfolding chestnut woods. 

“Gently, Ivon. Make no noise at the landing,” 
Garvie murmured. 

They crept up the rough stone steps, built in 
among great round boulders, and Garvie jumped 
out and climbed the rough path. 

242 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


The stately beauty of the old place touched him 
even through his absorbtion in his coming task. 

‘‘What a home might be made here,” he mut- 
tered to himself as he looked up at the stern grey 
pile that had sheltered one race for centuries. 
For a moment his imagination played him a trick. 
He saw a joyous, active, young chatelaine, beau- 
tifying her home, loving the country, sailing, rid- 
ing, lounging on the warm sea-sands on summer 
noons, or by great wood fires on winter nights. 
Two together, “man and woman created he 
them.” 

Then the vision faded before the reality. A 
yellow sunset glow was full on the chateau front, 
and, entering the gateless court yard, an incon- 
gruous picture revealed itself to him. 

On one of the lower steps of the doorway sat 
Virginie Lapierre, demure mourning dress dis- 
carded for a scarlet dressing-gown, her hair 
tumbled about her shoulders in wild disarray. 

She had spread a picnic meal on an upper step, 
in the same fashion that Garvie had so often seen 
her set out her lunch in any convenient corner of 
his studio. 

There was a bottle of red wine, a loaf, and 
Bologna sausage, a crisp white onion cut in halves, 
and a slice of coarse Dutch cheese. She was at- 
tacking these provisions with the hearty gusto of 
any street gamin, every movement bespeaking the 
joyful reaction into liberty after the day’s masque- 
rading. 


243 


WITCHCRAFT 


So absorbed was she in arranging slices of sau- 
sage and onion on a piece of bread, that she never 
heard Garvie's footsteps on the grass. When 
she did, her knife and her improvised sandwich 
dropped disregarded while she stared at him in 
dismay. 

A weird creature she looked in the lurid after- 
glow, and Garvie felt that Ivon, had he followed 
him, might have felt justified in his fear of 
witches. 

What was that strange gleam in her eyes, hate 
or fear? All the wistfulness that had at times 
shewed through her recklessness was gone, and 
she was simply a wild creature brought to bay. 

^^Sapristi! So your pretty young lady has sent 
you here already. She loses no time,’’ she scoffed, 
after the first panic-struck pause. 

With a sense of relief he saw that they were 
to come to the point without skirmishing. 

‘T have known that you were here, ever since 
the day I met you at Tremalo,” he asserted. 

‘‘But you didn’t tell her, until she found it out 
for herself to-day,” she jeered again, with what 
seemed to him fiendish insight. 

“It does not matter what I told anyone,” he 
insisted. “I have come here to warn you to drop 
this crazy fraud of Britski’s, and see to your own 
safety. You should lose no time in getting away 
from here. The game is up, I tell you.” 

Decided as were his words, he saw that they 
had missed their effect. 


244 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


‘'Since when?” she asked, lounging back 6n the 
steps in a splendid pose. He could not but mark 
how the loose sleeve fell away to shew the flesh 
tints of her arm, how her body took that long 
curve under her clinging red draperies. 

“So you want me to go, do you, you and that 
great wooden-limbed doll ?” she shrilled, deliber- 
ately working up her temper. “Take care then 
that I go alone. You would look cheap, you and 
she, if I waltzed off with the old bonhomme and 
his cash. Hey, but if I once got him to Vienna 
the shekels would fly !” And with the words, she 
sprang to her feet snapping her fingers over her 
head in a splendid Bacchante gesture. 

“And what would Britski say to that?’’ he 
asked, striking desperately at a venture. 

Her arm dropped to her side, and she stood 
facing him, trying not to betray the check. 

“Britski is all right, if only he gets his pickings, 
and there would be plenty of pickings going,” she 
asserted with an attempt at defiance. 

“Britski and you might be anything but all 
right, if it came to a trial for swindling and for- 
gery,” Garvie retorted. 

“A marriage would make me safe from that. 
Hey, then, how would that Diana of yours fancy 
me for a belle-mere?’^ 

“That would be the quickest way to cut your 
throat,” he answered with a more coolness under 
the insult than he felt. “In America there are 
divorces for the smallest things. As soon as Mr. 


245 


WITCHCRAFT 


Praed understood what you really were, he could 
turn you off penniless.” 

“And who would make him?” she panted. 
“Not you, or I shall tell this Mademoiselle Ni- 
touche some pretty yarns of the Quarter. What 
matter if they happened to you or others.” 

“Look here, Virginie, I’ve had about enough 
of this,” he interrupted. “I came here to-night 
to give you a chance of getting quietly away be- 
fore the smash-up.” 

“But you are angelic!” 

“And if you won’t listen, you’ll be sorry for it. 
Do you know,” and he began to lie skillfully and 
boldly as befitted the present crisis. “Do you 
know that Mr. Praed’s son, a shrewd business 
man, is on his way from America to have you all 
arrested. Do you know that there have been tales 
spread round the country until the peasants are 
ready to mob you for witches ? If a child, or even 
a horse or cow, w^ere to die suddenly, your lives 
might not be safe for an hour. Have you never 
heard the old people tell of what such peasants 
as these have done when once they were mad with 
fright ?” 

He paused to let his words sink in. 

“Anything more?” she asked hoarsely. She 
had drawn herself up to her full height, braced 
back, a vivid line of red against the grey stone 
of the doorway. She seemed at the same moment 
to shrink from and defy him. Garvie could read 
in her distended eyes the gruesome recollection 

246 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


of fierce tales of peasant riots heard in some far- 
off land. 

His heart might have smitten him for this 
bullying of one who had been almost a comrade, 
but the shadow of Julia’s distress was over him, 
making him pitiless. 

But behind the girl in the doorway there ap- 
peared a figure that recalled Ivon’s tales. Under 
the black silk shawl that covered Mere Suzanne’s 
head, flashed a pair of wrathful eyes, first on him, 
then on Virginie. A clawlike hand grasped her 
arm, and a torrent of abuse in an unknown tongue 
descended upon her. Whatever the words might 
be, they cowed the girl, who slunk back into the 
house without a glance in his direction. 

The old woman equally ignored him, slamming 
the great door behind him. He could hear the 
heavy bolts drawn. 

“Well, that’s no go,” he muttered to himself, 
as he turned away. The sunset glow was gone, 
and the world was merged in a blue-grey twi- 
light. 

“Lucky for us there is a sea-breeze to take 
us up against the tide,” said Ivon, setting his bit 
of sail. 

The next morning Garvie left for Paris. 


247 


XXIII 

THE SCHWERER PORTFOLIOS 


S YLVIA, left without her friend, realized 
that she must rally all her forces against 
depression. She tried to absorb herself 
in an illustrated magazine article on 
the Bonaparte women, spending hours at the 
Bibliotheque Nationale. Daily she took a 
long walk in the early morning when the air was 
freshest, and the spacious avenues all but de- 
serted. She did not mean to fall ill if she could 
help it. It was her regular habit to call twice a 
week at Madame Marcelle’s, and on the custo- 
mary day she went as usual. 

“Madame is in her sitting-room. She said for 
you to come there,’’ was the mandate that met 
her. 

In this temple of fashion, the carpets were so 
deep, the portieres so heavy, that every move- 
ment was noiseless. Madame Marcelle seemed 
not to notice her entrance, lying back wearily with 
closed eye-lids amongst a pile of cushions. 

Was it fancy on Sylvia’s part, or did she really 
look worn and harrassed, her whole pose be- 
speaking dejection? 

All her old liking revived by the thought, she 
248 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


said quickly, as she came forward, ‘‘Dear ma- 
dame, are you tired or ill T* 

Alertly erect, the smile back on her lips, the 
dressmaker demanded, “Why ask that? Do I 
then look old and ugly?’’ 

She reached out to take up a silver hand-glass 
from the table, and stared at herself critically. 

“I had the migraine last night, but I shall take 
a drive at lunch time and that will make me look 
all right. Ah, I envy those fine ladies nothing 
save fresh air. When I was a child, at home in 
Normandy — but what does that matter now, 
when there are a hundred different customers to 
please?” — she checked herself. “Come and sit 
down and talk things over,” she added, pointing 
to a chair. “How dainty you look this morning, 
in your little grey alpaca. To think of you, who 
supply ideas for some of the costliest dresses in 
Paris, wearing a ready-made. Bon Marche 
blouse.” 

“The Trois Quartiers, madame. The Bon 
Marche is too far for busy folk like me. Don’t 
you like it ?” Sylvia asked smiling, as she stroked 
down the discussed garment. 

“It does,” was the acknowledgment. “But Ed 
rather see you in proper clothes. You wear them 
well. See, then. Owing to you, that American 
trousseau is such a success that I should like to 
give you a present. Let me make you a little sum- 
mer silk, something useful if you like — black-and- 


249 


THE SCHWERER PORTFOLIOS 


white, or dark blue. I should give you an air so 
distingueJ^ 

Sylvia shook her head. She had to smile very 
hard for fear of revealing the distaste this pro- 
posal aroused. 

‘‘Ah, dear madame, you are all that is kind, but 
indeed, I have so little use for such clothes. I 
hope to spend the summer in some quiet country 
place where a blouse and a ready-made skirt are 
all that I need.’^ 

“Indeed,” and Sylvia felt that this scheme of 
hers had been weighed and disapproved of, before 
Madame said cheerfully, “Well then, it shall be 
for next autumn.” 

Knowing that many things must happen be- 
fore that, Sylvia did not gainsay her. They dis- 
cussed some orders for a while, and then Madame 
shoved aside their papers, saying, ^'Ciel, I forgot 
that I am due at Britski’s this half-hour. I am 
to look at some rare laces from Antwerp. I want 
the first choice of them. Yes, and he told me to 
bring you to see some wonderful portfolios of 
drawings of court beauties from the time of 
Henry IV to the Revolution. It is the Schwerer 
collection, just bought by a Russian princess, and 
he only has it for a week or two, so if you do not 
come now you may miss the chance.” 

Certainly, something must be wrong with 
Madame to-day, for as she spoke, her manner 
was forced, her colour came and went, and she 
watched Sylvia narrowly. The latter hesitated. 


250 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


half-ashamed of the feeling that made her shrink 
from going to Britski’s. She instinctively 
guessed, however, that she could not refuse, and 
remain on quite the same friendly terms with her 
employer, and Harriett’s warning recurred to her. 
Besides, she felt grateful for Madame Marcelle’s 
kindly offer and anxious to please her. 

So she agreed, and presently they were driving 
the short distance to the Avenue de I’Opera, in 
a neat little carriage. 

On these spring mornings, there were strangers 
of all nations to be found in Britski’s outer shop 
where the least valuable articles were displayed. 

One or two appreciative glances followed 
Madame Marcelle as she swept through and on 
to the upper galleries. In her fair maturity she 
was like one of Ruben’s richly-coloured, full- 
curved women, and the type is ever a favourite 
one in Paris. 

On every side were things that Sylvia wanted 
to pause and study. In the diffused daylight of 
a room lighted from above, they found Britski, 
loitering before a small picture on an easel. Had 
he expected them, Sylvia wondered, as he moved 
forward to meet them, with his usual gentle de- 
ference. 

‘‘So you have brought your little Cinderella,” 
he said to his wife. Then to Sylvia, “Ah, 
Mademoiselle, I can promise you a sight that 
makes it worth your coming. But, as this is your 

251 


THE SCHWERER PORTFOLIOS 


first visit, let me take you for a stroll among my 
treasures.’’ 

Treasures they were indeed that she saw, as 
she followed him down the long gallery. On the 
dull red walls hung modern pictures, each placed 
where it could be seen to the best advantage. No 
overcrowding here. 

Beneath the pictures stood choicest articles of 
furniture, from the heavy black oak chest, rudely 
carved in Celtic design, to the slim inlaid cabinet 
or work-table, wrought by Buhl or Caffieri in the 
days of the fifteenth Louis. 

On these were placed enamels or porcelains of 
the rarest kinds. 

“This Henry II vase and that Capo-di-Monte 
dish, are likely to be bought by the state for 
Cluny,” Britski said, pointing impressively to two 
insignificant pieces of china. 

Sylvia could not but respect the knowledge 
which every word revealed as he passed from 
one object to another. He treated her, too, not 
as a good-looking girl, but as a fellow connois- 
seur, who could appreciate his comments, could 
sympathize with his love for these things 
brought together by his own efforts. 

The latent hope of finding some traces of 
Thorpe caused her to keep a keen eye on the 
pictures though her guide gave them less notice 
in passing than he did the bric-a-brac. 

Her watch was rewarded by sight of a small 
pastel, the weird study of a red-haired child 


252 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


gathering apples in a russet-tinted orchard, a 
study he had shewed her with a frank delight 
in its originality. 

A quick glance discovered the monogram R. T. 
with which Thorpe was wont to sign his lesser 
work. 

She caught her breath in an effort at compos- 
ure, before she said, “I see you have a little thing 
of Mr. Thorpe’s there?” 

Britski’s smiling eyes were full on her face 
as he answered suavely, ‘‘Do you think that is 
Thorpe’s. Well, it may be. It was bought for 
me at a studio auction in the Quarter. I some- 
times send a man to such sales. One picks up 
clever studies at them, now and then. Some col- 
lectors have a liking for studies. More individu- 
ality, they say.” 

Resolved not to be headed off in this fashion, 
she asked with a beating heart, “Do you know 
where Mr. Thorpe is now?” 

Britski laughed as though the joke were ex- 
cellent. 

''Sapristi, I wish I did. He owes me for 
frames, as he owes for nearly everything else, I 
hear. His friend, Mr. Howe, thinks he has gone 
to America, but he is just as likely to be in Venice 
or Capri, or any cheap place where artists gather. 
Anyway, his day is done. He can never show in 
Paris again.” 

With a resolute hold on herself, Sylvia checked 
the indignant protest that rushed to her lips. It 


253 


THE SCHWERER PORTFOLIOS 

would be folly to let these people see what 
Thorpe’s good name was to her. 

Just then, Madame Marcelle made a diversion 
by announcing that she could waste her working 
hours no longer and would go down stairs to 
inspect the lace. ‘T will rejoin you in your little 
room in half-an-hour. It is there that you have 
the precious portfolios, mon amif^ 

Britski assented briefly, and led the way 
towards the end of the gallery, where heavy cur- 
tains divided off his own sanctum. 

A queer type of the man, Sylvia thought it, as 
she noted the luxury of two deep armchairs; the 
small Millet, a sombre sketch of village roofs 
against a sunset sky, that hung well in view of 
Britski’s seat; the shelf of pale green jade carv- 
ings against a red background; the heavy safe 
door in the wall, which told of hidden treasures. 

On the table of massive carved oak, lay three 
purple morocco portfolios, stamped with a gilt 
monogram. 

‘‘Ah, here are my choicest gems — would that 
they were really mine,” Britski said as he shoved 
forward one of the armchairs for her. 

“I knew of this collection, that was the life- 
long hobby of a Vienna banker, but when it came 
into the market, a Russian princess was too quick 
for me. Now, I am tantilized by having these 
portfolios in my hands for repairs.” 

He unlocked the clasps with a little gold key 
from his watch-chain, and then Sylvia forgot 

254 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


everything else in what she saw. There was, as 
he had said, a unique collection of coloured prints, 
pastels and water-colour drawings. Many a fair, 
frail dame who had dabbled her white fingers in 
the history of nations to leave a lurid stain, was 
here represented. 

Some of the faces and costumes were familiar 
to Sylvia from her researches; others were en- 
tirely novel, and aroused her keenest interest. 
What a help they might have been to her in the 
writing of her book. “Ah, if I only could have 
had the use of them,’^ she breathed, half to her- 
self. 

“I am desole Britski said softly, “but I am 
sworn to let no copy be made — ^however — ” 

“Oh indeed, I never meant that. I know that it 
would be impossible,’’ Sylvia protested, red with 
annoyance. 

“I was about, though, to ask your help,” he 
went on. “You see,” taking up a book in the 
same purple binding and opening it to reveal 
pages of minute handwriting — “this is a cata- 
logue of the collection, but in four places, marked 
thus with a red cross, the drawing is miss- 
ing. I have the four names here on a slip of 
paper. They are all Frenchwomen, and I have 
been asked to have these blanks filled up with 
modern replicas from the Paris museums. 

“It is no easy task, and requires both knowl- 
edge and skill. I mentioned my perplexity to 
Marcelle and she, like the creature of resources 


255 


THE SCHWERER PORTFOLIOS 


she is, immediately declared that you, Made- 
moiselle, were the person to help me. You will 
not disappoint me, I am sure.’' 

As Sylvia looked up into the keen, intellectual 
face, she knew that the request was a genuine one, 
knew too, that there were not many as compe- 
tent to do the w^ork. Harriett’s warnings and her 
own misgivings were forgotten in the spirit of 
her craft. 

‘T am sure that I could find pictures of all 
these four without much difficulty,” she said, 
fingering the paper thoughtfully. “This last — 
Lucille Desmoulins — I know a charming print of 
her in the Bibliotheque, and I could copy it in 
water-colours.” 

“Then you will undertake it?” Britski asked, 
with an eagerness too quiet to startle her. Sylvia 
had already turned back to the fascinating port- 
folios. 

“Oh yes, I will undertake it,” she answered, 
as though it were a foregone conclusion. Then 
with a little laugh, “It is a bold thing to put my- 
self in competition with work like this.” She 
held out a delicate pastel of the wistful-eyed 
Louise de la Valliere in all her court bravery. 
“How rare this must be. I have never even seen 
a copy of it.” 

“I think there is another of her in convent dress. 
Poor Louise, she was the earthen pot among the 
brass ones,” Britski said, turning over the sheets. 

They were in full swing now, and each portrait 

256 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


brought its own comment or discussion. Witli 
the interest, Sylvia’s languor was gone. A pink 
flush transformed her face, and she talked freely 
and cleverly. 

Her armchair was drawn up to the table, and 
on the other side of it, his back to the curtained 
doorway, Britski stood, leaning forward with one 
hand on the table. 

“Ah, if only I had bought these portfolios, 
what a book we might have made from them, you 
and I, Mademoiselle. I should have spared noth- 
ing to make it a gem worthy of your name.” 

As he said the words, Sylvia saw a gloved hand 
part the heavy curtains, and a face appeared be- 
tween their folds. Was it only an effect from the 
dark red hangings that made that face show white 
and rigid as a Medusa head, to Sylvia’s be- 
wildered vision ? Surely it was fancy, she 
thought, as Madame Marcelle’s cheery voice rang 
out, ‘‘Mon Dieu, are you two still over those pic- 
tures?” and Madame’s handsome self sailed in. 
“I fear that I must tear you away, petite. My 
fine ladies will all be on strike,” she urged, but 
Sylvia protested. 

“Ah, madame, give one little look at this Wat- 
teau dress. It is an idyl.” 

There were a few moments more loitering over 
the portfolio, and then Madame Marcelle took 
Sylvia by the arm and gaily insisted that she 
must carry her off. 

“Just a minute for business.” Britski said, 

257 


THE SCHWERER PORTFOLIOS 


‘‘See then, Mademoiselle,” and he produced a lit- 
tle package of tinted papers. “Of course you un- 
derstand that we must have no crude white paper 
jumping at the eyes here. These are samples to 
choose from for your work. I have had the town 
searched for the nearest match to these time- 
softened fabrics. Send me a little word to say 
which you wish and you shall have it at once.” 

The words were carelessly spoken, but Madame 
Marcelle stood watching as though the little roll 
which he handed Sylvia contained her fate. 

Perhaps her intentness irritated him, for Britski 
asked sharply, “Did you decide about your laces, 
Marcelle?” 

The latter started before she answered gaily, 
'^Bien sur. Though you may think that I have 
taken the lion’s share, mon ami/^ 

“Ah, well,” was the answer in renewed suavity. 
“Your customers and mine both want the best, 
and they are willing to pay for it, or they would 
not come to us. That is so, is it not. Mademoi- 
selle?” 

“I suppose so,” Sylvia murmured. The port- 
folios were closed and the spell was broken. Once 
in the carriage again with Madame Marcelle she 
was aware of an impalpable breath of discord. 
Not that it found any open expression, for the 
lady volubly spoke of her pleasure that her little 
friend should be of use to her husband, of the 
lucky chance that had given Sylvia the commis- 
sion. “And where are you going now?” she 

258 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


asked, with a swift turn, fixing the girl with her 
bright blue eyes. “Shall the carriage take you 
home ?” 

“I am going home, but, please, I would rather 
walk,” Sylvia pleaded, with an undefined desire 
for solitude. Then feeling that she had been ab- 
rupt, she added, “My first task must be to try 
some colours on these samples, and find out what 
I need. I suppose I had better write to Monsieur 
Britski about it?” she asked timidly. 

“No, I will send Joseph to you this evening; 
you can give him the list,” came brusque as an 
order to a servant. 


259 


XXIVi 

PITFALLS 

S YLVIA now spent most of her days in 
the hunting-grounds already familiar 
to her, the wonderful national collec- 
tions of Paris. 

The smoke-coloured drawing-paper had come, 
and in faint-hued water-colours she completed her 
copy of the hapless Lucille Desmoulins’ portrait. 

Of a less known beauty she had found a rough 
little print that she hoped to work up into a pic- 
ture. 

In her enjoyment of the congenial task she 
came nearer to forgetfulness of her anxieties. 
The hours spent in quiet old galleries were so 
short for all that she wanted to unearth of that 
past, doubly dead through its futility. What a 
much saner, less turbulent world it will be when 
more women shall have learned the soothing 
powers of the day’s impersonal work! 

It was near closing time in the Bibliotheque 
Nationale, and Sylvia was making earnest use of 
her last half-hour, when a note was brought her 
from Britski, saying that he had obtained the loan 
of a rare book of pre-Revolutionary portraits, 
among which was one of the missing dame. 

260 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Would she come and see it when she left the li- 
brary ? 

Thinking nothing save that this was another 
step towards the successful ending of her task, 
Sylvia left the cool stillness of the big building 
to plunge into the glittering stir of the streets. 
At four on an April afternoon Paris life surges 
at high tide, and as she sped along, a demure 
little figure, Sylvia’s thoughts fled wistfully from 
the noisy streets to a certain familiar spot in dis- 
tant New England where the blue-green waves 
would be lapping among the brown sea-weeds 
on the granite ledges, where the west wind would 
be seeking out the sweetness of the hidden 
arbutus amongst last year’s birch leaves. Ah, 
those days of youth and idleness in the home- 
land! Could she never creep back there, a tired 
woman, to end life where she had begun it ? 

She roused herself from these unprofitable 
dreams at Britski’s door. 

There was a quiet over the show-rooms, the 
cosmopolitan customers of the earlier part of the 
day being now out at race-courses and in the 
Bois. 

She seemed to be expected, for a shopman led 
her up stairs, and then the whole length of the 
galleries towards Britski’s private room. The si- 
lence, the loneliness of the place made her nervous. 
Dark figures in armour seemed to threaten her 
from shadowy corners. A gilded Bhudda smiled 
across at a gigantic, many-coloured mummy-case, 

261 


PITFALLS 


with its calm face and crossed hands, as though 
pitying this western waif for her ignorance of 
all the secrets of life that they two knew. A level 
ray of sunshine pierced a square of Nuremburg 
glass and drew a lurid red stain down the neck 
of a white bust of the Princesse de Lamballe, as 
though recalling the September day that saw that 
fair head cut down. 

There was no room for such fancies in the 
cosy little sitting-room, with its window open to 
the outside air, and to the stir of the street below. 
Sylvia stood for a moment, glad to be alone and 
to recover her breath. 

^‘What a fool I get when I am tired,” she 
murmured, giving hasty little touches to her hair 
before a round mirror that hung on one wall. 
The mirror gave her back a pale face, with the 
jaded look of a worker at the day’s end. 

From a side door Britski appeared, with his 
usual quietness of movement, and any vague un- 
easiness which Sylvia may have felt was soothed 
by his businesslike directness. 

‘T, too, have not been idle, you see. Mademoi- 
selle,” he said with a wave of the hand towards 
a book on the table. ‘‘This is a rare history of 
the diamond-necklace affair, and there is a por- 
trait of the Countess de La Motte, which is what 
you want. I have to return the book to-day, and 
if you could make a sketch now,” he suggested. 

“Oh yes,” Sylvia said, opening her note-book 
and sitting down. Her weariness was forgotten 

262 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


as she studied the piquant little face of the woman 
doomed to the ordeal of torture. 

‘T wonder if when she was a child she ever 
dreamt of the rack and awoke shrieking,” she 
pondered. 

Meanwhile Britski was standing watching her 
and presently asked, ‘‘You have been all day at 
the Bibliotheque, Mademoiselle?” 

“All day, Monsieur.” 

“And your dejeuner?’^ 

“Oh, I ran out to a cremerie for a bowl of choc- 
olate and a roll,” she answered, her head bent 
over her book. 

“If you would honour me — ^you see, I am half 
Russian in my habits, and have tea at all hours, 
so that they bring it whenever I want it. It is 
five oYlock, and I know your English ways. May 
I not give you a cup of tea now ?” 

As she came in, Sylvia had noticed a white 
cloth covered side-table on which stood a Russian 
samovar and cups of egg-shell china, and a plate 
or two of dainty cakes. She did not know why 
the idea of this little meal alone with Britski was 
a shock to her, but with the shock came the 
knowledge that she must hide it. 

“It is kind in you to think of it,” she made 
smiling answer, “but you forget that I am an 
American, and have no English ways. I really 
never take tea in the afternoon.” 

She was looking up at him, and marked a pe- 

263 


PITFALLS 


culiar contraction about his eyes that deepened 
some strange lines. 

“Pardon me/' he said in a silkier voice than 
ever. “I know that I have no right to try to turn 
a business interview into a friendly one. I am 
afraid that some of my customers spoil me and 
make me apt to forget that I am only a shop- 
keeper.” 

To her dismay, Sylvia saw that the man was 
genuinely annoyed, and with the old instinct of 
good-breeding, she tried to atone. 

“But I am not a customer, only a poor little 
work-girl, about whom it is very kind in you to 
trouble.” She had overdone her humility, she 
saw by the flash in his eye, but it was too late now 
to retreat and she went on. 

“I daresay you are right, that tea would do 
me good, for I have a folle headache from those 
musty rooms. I shall be glad of a cup, if it is no 
trouble.” 

“Trouble!” he said in a deep voice, then turned 
aside to ring and give an order, while she went 
on with her work. 

Her sketch was finished as the tea appeared, 
and it was bodily ease to lean back in her arm- 
chair, nibbling at a dainty langue de chat and sip- 
ping tea such as she had never before tasted. 

“It is caravan tea,” Britski said, as she com- 
mented on it. “I have a friend who sends it to 
me from Moscow. I believe in taking a little 
trouble to have the best.” 

264 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


‘‘You always have the best, it seems to me,” 
she said, feeling this a safe topic. “Your house 
at Meudon is nearly as full of beautiful things 
as these galleries.” 

“And why should I not have my own pleasure 
in the things I love, the things it is a grief to me to 
sell to ignoramuses, to nouveaux richest* he said 
ardently. “That little villa is nothing to the home 
I mean to have some day, in Sicily or Corfu. It 
is good enough in its way, though. Tell me, 
you will let Marcelle bring you there some Sun- 
day — next Sunday, eh?” 

He was leaning forward, his arms on the table, 
his eager eyes fixed on her face. 

There could be no more self-deception. She 
must walk warily with this man. It was not 
her first experience of the kind, since she had 
faced the ordeal of bread-winning. Many a bit- 
ter tear had been afterwards shed over the hu- 
miliation which, at the time, she had faced with 
cool contempt. More than one good offer of 
work had been rejected because they had been 
proffered in that same vibrant voice, with those 
eager eyes, that intense smile. 

The cold fury that came over her cleared her 
mind, and shewed her the harm that this man’s 
enmity might do to her. 

If only she could get away without a scene, 
she would take care that he had no such chance 
again. 

With the smiling chill of her old society armour 
265 


PITFALLS 


she answered, pushing her chair the smallest bit 
backwards : 

“A thousand thanks, Monsieur. It is lovely out 
there, away from the streets. I am sorry, but I 
have promised to spend Sunday with an Ameri- 
can friend.” 

‘‘Can you not put her off It is ‘her’?” he 
asked, sharp as a flash. 

If only he would take those piercing eyes off 
her face. A horrible fancy that he was hypnotiz- 
ing her, brought a clammy dampness to her fore- 
head. 

“Yes it is ‘her,’ but I fear I must not break my 
promise,” she answered as lightly as she might, 
though she heard the quaver in her voice. Why 
could not her woman’s body answer to the cour- 
age of her woman’s soul? Just then, she heard 
a shuffling step in the corridor, and knew that 
the longed-for interruption was at hand. 

“May I come in. Monsieur Britski?” sounded 
a piping masculine voice. 

The contraction of the latter’s eyelids alone 
told his annoyance as he answered, “Certainly, 
Monsieur Naftal. Do me the honour to enter,” 

A shrivelled old man with a terrier-like face 
ambled in. 

Mr. Naftal still called himself an artist, though 
it was many years since he had produced a pic- 
ture. If he had any use in the scheme of exist- 
ence, it was to act as a link between art and so- 
ciety in Parisian-American circles. 

266 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


He took people the round of the studios, got 
little paragraphs about young artists into the 
papers, helped wealthy dames to pick up the bar- 
gains their souls loved, and made himself so gen- 
erally useful that he seldom had to pay for his 
own dinner. 

Sylvia knew him, and knew him, too, as an 
inveterate scandal-monger. She caught his 
glance of discreet amusement as he took in the 
tea-table with their intimate group, and she knew 
that the situation would lose nothing in the tell- 
ing. 

With a great show of cordiality, Britski rose 
and offered his armchair to the newcomer, but 
Sylvia saw that he had taken the chance to close 
the book that lay open on the table, and to shove 
her sketch-book to one side. 

She took this as a hint that she was to say 
nothing about her commission before the visitor. 
At any rate, she would get away while he was 
still there; that she was resolved. 

‘‘La-la, it is too bad that Louis of yours did 
not tell me you were engaged. And here I am 
breaking up your little party,” fussed Mr. Naftal, 
his eyes sparkling with mischief. 

“You are not breaking it up, Mr. Naftal, be- 
cause I was going,” Sylvia said, pulling on her 
gloves. “We had finished our business. Monsieur 
Britski and I, and as I was tired from my work, 
he was kind enough to order tea for me. I shall 
remember that caravan tea. Monsieur,” she said 


267 


PITFALLS 


as she rose. It was quite safe to be amiable now. 

‘Tf only you remember to come soon and have 
some more, Mademoiselle,'' he said deferentially. 

‘‘And what charming creations are you concoct- 
ing now?" Mr. Naftal asked with an inquisitive 
glance at her sketch-book. 

“A ballet of Queen Mab and her fairy court," 
she retorted airily. “Good-day, Mr. Naftal. Ah 
Monsieur," as Britski followed her, “do not dis- 
turb yourself. I know the way down." 

“It is nothing," was all the notice he took as he 
persisted in going. 

She brushed on rapidly past some crowded fur- 
niture, but presently the greater space of the gal- 
lery gave him room to walk beside her. 

“To-morrow must be given to search for num- 
ber four — Agnes Sorel," she said, feeling words 
better than the silent companionship of intimacy. 

“And where do you hope to find her ?" he asked. 

“I must explore the St. Genevieve library. I 
have leave to study the engravings there," she 
made answer, not thinking of any reason for keep- 
ing her movements unknown to Britski. 

She thought of it, though, the next afternoon, 
when, walking down the sombre Rue Soufflot, 
that leads from the scholastic shades of the col- 
leges to the stir of the Boul. Mich, and the cheer- 
ful outdoor life of the Luxembourg, she came on 
Britski strolling casually along. She made no 
attempt to conceal the nervous surprise with 

268 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


which she greeted him, and he indirectly answered 
it by saying: 

“Behold me, Mademoiselle, in the regions 
where I pursue the wily artist. It is the hour 
when they begin to gather at the cafes of the 
Boulevard. You are walking that way. May I 
join you?” 

“I am only going to take a Clichy-Odeon bus 
at the corner,” was her repressing answer. 

They both knew that this being the end of the 
line she would not have to stand about, but could 
at once on reaching the arcades of the theatre, step 
into a waiting bus. 

Britski took a comprehensive glance at the in- 
obtrusive grey figure before he said with gentle 
pertinacity, “Why should you hurry from your 
day’s work into one of those stifling omnibuses? 
Come and sit for a little minute under the trees 
in the Gardens, and tell me of your search to-day. 
If you are so economical of time, it will save you 
a letter or an interview to-morrow.” 

There was a thinly veiled sneer in the latter 
words, and perhaps they stung her a bit, for she 
paused to face him, as she said, “I am sorry. Mon- 
sieur, but I really must hurry home.” 

“At least come for five minutes to the 
patisserie at the corner — just five minutes to eat 
a haha and drink a glass of syrop/^ he persisted. 

The flush deepened on her face. Did this man 
think that she, Sylvia Dorr, was one to go about 
the restaurants of the Latin Quarter with him ? 

269 


PITFALLS 


‘Tt is quite impossible, Monsieur,” she said, 
disdaining any further excuse as she walked on. 

“How proud you are,” he murmured, with a 
glance of wrathful admiration. 

“I need to be, alone as I am,” she asserted, her 
eyes fixed ahead, her chin well atilt. They had 
reached the stir of the Boulevard, and she was 
just poising herself for the perilous crossing, 
when amid the stream of cabs and motor-cars and 
busses, she caught a glimpse of a watchful, lower- 
ing face, at the window of a closed cab. Madame 
Marcelle was spying upon her husband’s move- 
ments. Could it be on her account ? 

The thought steadied her, and she found her- 
self deftly threading her way among the horses’ 
heads and the puffing motors, while Britski was 
checked on the pavement. 

Had he seen his wife’s face? She did not 
know, she did not care. All she wanted was to 
reach the shelter of a public vehicle. 

In a step or two Britski was again at her side, 
but there was small chance of any continued talk 
as they were swept on with the Boulevard stream. 

Already there were noisy groups of students 
and overdressed women at the tables before the 
cafe doors. It was Thursday, the day that a 
military band plays in the Luxembourg Gardens, 
and the Quarter had responded to its call. A mor- 
tal loathing of all this sordid brightness came over 
Sylvia, and she could scarcely veil her nervous ir- 
ritation, to answer her companion when he asked. 


270 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


‘‘You will not then give me a few minutes 

“Pm afraid not, Monsieur. Ah, there is a bus 
ready to start.” 

The conductor was on the platform as she 
darted forward, and with a hasty bonjour to 
Britski, jumped up, and climbed the narrow steps 
to the roof. 

Here she subsided on a bench in a tremour of 
wrath and fear. The big omnibus thundered 
over the rough pavement of the dark old streets, 
by the grim, historic churches of St. SulpicQ and 
St. Germain-des-Pres. By the time it had reached 
the Pont du Carrousel, and the river breezes fan- 
ned her face, Sylvia’s passive courage had re- 
vived, with her self-confidence. 

What harm could this scheming man, this jeal- 
ous woman, do her, unless her own weakness sup- 
plied the means? She would go home and work 
night and day to finish up this commission that 
had been made the excuse for intercourse, and 
would then carefully avoid any more such traps. 

She was not afraid of anyone, she assured her- 
self; but, all the same, she felt desperately for- 
lorn as she reached her own room and looked 
around with a longing for the familiar presence 
of Harriett Oakes. 


271 


XXV 

THE SNARE IS BROKEN 

F or two days, Sylvia worked steadily, 
hardly leaving her room save at meal 
times. Then, her task finished, she 
took her drawings to Britski’s, at an 
hour when she guessed he would be absent at 
dejeuner. 

There was a very real sense of relief in know- 
ing that the affair of the portfolios was ended, 
and she did her best to put out of her mind the 
remembrance of Britski's eager eyes, of his wife's 
haggard face. 

It was a day or so later, when, returning from a 
walk, she opened the door of her room to see the 
waiting figure of a thin old lady, with the stamp 
of genteel poverty on every inch of her meagre 
garments. 

This was Miss Cloude, an old family acquaint- 
ance, who found the occupation of making meet 
the two ends of a very small income a little less 
sordid under foreign skies and among strangers. 

Her inquisitive pessimism was often a strain 
on Sylvia's nerves, but she always did her best 
at a cordial welcome, and never, if possible, let 
the poor soul go without whatever food she could 
offer her. 


272 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


“Now this is nice. You and I will have a cup 
of tea together/’ she said as cheerfully as possible, 
but was met by a mournful shake of the head. 

“Ah, my dear, it was not for tea that I came. 
As an old friend of your family, I felt it my duty 
to warn you.” 

This unpromising opening chilled Sylvia’s hos- 
pitality, and presently she found herself listening 
to a remarkably unpleasant tale. One of Miss 
Cloude’s greatest joys was an occasional Sunday 
lunch with a certain kind-hearted member of the 
American colony. At the latest of these func- 
tions, Mr. Naftal had been also a guest, and he 
had entertained his hostess with a lamentation 
over the Bohemian tendencies of American girl 
students in Paris, as instanced in Sylvia Dorr, 
whom he had found having tea, alone in his office, 
with Britski, “who, when all’s said and done isn’t 
much better than the old clothes man who goes 
round calling ^marganfs d’hahits ^ — 

“He said, my dear, that you had cigarettes ; but 
that, I assured him, was impossible.” 

“No, there were no cigarettes,” Sylvia said 
wearily. 

“And Mrs. Lyle said that she was disappointed 
to hear that you were that sort, on account of 
your family.” 

“Look here. Miss Cloude, I know you would 
help me if you could.” 

“Yes indeed, child,” and the thin hand patted 
hers. 


273 


THE SNARE IS BROKEN 


‘‘Well, then, I want you to go to Mrs. Lyle, and 
tell her the true story,’' and Sylvia gave a little 
sketch of the incident, “and tell her, too, that 
I shall take good care never to have tea alone 
with Monsieur Britski again. 

“That’s right, my dear, for — I didn’t mean to 
tell you — but Mr. Lyle joined in and said that if 
half the things he had heard of Britski were true, 
no lady should have anything to do with him, 
business or no business.” 

Sylvia was both startled and wounded at this, 
and her voice was tremulous as she tried to an- 
swer lightly, “It’s not so easy to be a lady and a 
work-girl both. The lady must go to the wall, 
sometimes.” 

“Oh, my dear, and your mother one of the 
Rockford Troubridges!” 

Sylvia did her best to cheer the woman who 
had the misfortune to belong to the old dispensa- 
tion of feminine incapacity. She fed her with 
tea and biscuits and sent her on her way, in a 
twitter to defend the girl. 

Then, when the door closed, she turned back 
to her solitude in utter desolation of spirit. So 
she could not even fight her battle, bear the humi- 
liations that honest toil brings to such as she, 
without the jeers of gossips, the cruel comments 
of those who should defend her. 

Mechanically moving about to tidy the remains 
of her little tea-party, she noticed an unstamped 
envelope on her table, addressed in Britski’s 


274 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


flowing Italian hand. Taking it up, she found 
it to be soft and fat, and sealed with a big red 
seal. On this seal was the impression of a bare 
arm clutching a dagger, with a motto in an un- 
known tongue running round it. Within were 
two bank-notes of a value that made her stare. 
She had not expected to be thus paid for her 
work. 

There was a flowery letter expressing the satis- 
faction which her drawings had given, and say- 
ing that he would be always ready to take as 
many more of such drawings as she could supply 
him with, at the same prices. 

“There is a demand for that style of water- 
colours to go with Louis Quinze drawing-room 
furnishings,’' he added. 

A rapid calculation told Sylvia that a month 
or so of work paid at that rate, would mean more 
than she had ever earned, and for a moment she 
wondered if it might not be possible to undertake 
it. It was but for a moment, and then as she 
realized that Britski was paying her more than 
the market value, her cheeks burned with shame 
that she should have harboured the temptation. 

There was one of the samples of smoke-col- 
oured paper lying on the table, and taking it up 
she studied it with absent-minded intentness, her 
thoughts all on the problem as to how best to 
refuse this offer, without bringing about a rupture 
with Madame Marcelle. 

What a subtle tint of age was on this paper, 


275 


THE SNARE IS BROKEN 


and how curiously rubbed and blunted its edges 
were. Surely Britski must have unearthed some 
veritable old pile hidden away among artists’ ma- 
terials. 

What pains he took about trifles, for after all, 
it was a mere trifling detail to give these modern 
drawings such a look of age. 

Was it a trifling detail, though ? And then she 
caught her breath, as she saw the trap into which 
she had so blindly stepped. The tale of the Rus- 
sian princess must be all a fabrication. Those 
portfolios had been bought incomplete, and were 
now, thanks to her, to be sold as a complete col- 
lection. No wonder he could afford to pay her 
well. No wonder he could offer her more such 
work, work that would all be sold under false 
pretences. 

Dazed with horror, she wondered if the little 
tea-party had been part of the plot, and if Mr. 
Naftal had been purposely allowed to come up 
and find her in intimate converse with her em- 
ployer. 

With Madame Marcelle’s jealousy aroused 
against her, with slander spread amongst her 
fellow-countrymen, she would be a helpless tool 
in Britski’s hands. 

Would she, though? And amidst her desola- 
tion, the tonic of righteous anger stirred her into 
a new force. Lucky for her, in that moment, 
that she came of a sturdy stock, used to facing 
the strength of the sea. But Rupert Thorpe? 

276 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Did not the game that had been played with her 
shew how he may have been entrapped? 

There was that signed Corot in the Meudon 
villa, which she had seen Thorpe paint as a joke. 
Had it not been innocently sold, with perhaps 
such a subsequent order given as had come to 
her to-day, until, with debts and the threats of 
of revealed forgeries, he had been securely caught 
in the toils, every effort at independent work 
baffled by Britski’s underhand influence. Ah, 
how he must have bled under the slow torture 
before he had taken refuge in flight. 

Where was he now, alive or dead ? And with 
the recurring thought of suicide, she wrung her 
hands in momentary despair. 

Would it not be better for her, too, to get away 
out of Britski’s ken ? There are some cases where 
an honest woman must own herself defeated. Did 
it not seem now as though that time had come for 
her? A cable to her sister would, she felt sure, 
bring her the passage-money to reach home. 
Then she remembered her brother-in-laws’s ill- 
ness, the young baby, and knew that there could 
be no spare funds in that household. No, there 
were, she knew, orders and letters with money 
coming to her, and she would hold her ground 
for a bit, and perhaps Harriett would soon be 
back. At thought of that tower of strength, the 
first sob came, and it was almost a luxury to let 
the grief storm sweep over her, unresisting. 

Poor Sylvia, with the blonde masses of her 


277 


THE SNARE IS BROKEN 


hair all tumbled against the shabby chintz of the 
armchair, just a lonely, heart-sick girl. 

But even then her fate was on the turn, for 
that day Julia’s friend Mr. Stratton had arrived 
in Paris. With as little delay as possible, he had 
hied to the Praeds’ apartment, only to find his 
divinity absent. Then he bethought himself of 
the friend in whose welfare Julia was so inter- 
ested. 

An energetic business man, he had already in- 
formed himself as to the quality of her work, 
and was satisfied that an illustrated book, by her 
on the history of costume would be worth the 
taking up. 

All the same, he might not have been so prompt 
a visitor without the ulterior motive of news of 
Julia. 

As it was, Sylvia, pale from last night’s storm, 
had barely settled herself to her morning’s work, 
when his card was brought to her. 

Mr. Stratton? The name conveyed little to 
her, the appearance of the burly, black-haired man 
still less. 

But she liked the steady grey eyes, the stolidly 
honest face, and at the first words of his purpose, 
she was aglow with hope — hope, all the more 
precious for the inky darkness it scattered. 

He had seen her illustrated article in the Era — ■ 
had made inquiries about her with the object of 
getting her to do some such series for the maga- 
zine connected with his firm, but, hearing of the 

278 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


book which she had in preparation, had come to 
ask to see it, with a view to publication. 

Presently he was looking over the precious 
portfolio, with judicious words of praise, and it 
was arranged that the manuscript should be sent 
to the hotel. 

‘T have a man whom I employ as a reader 
when such things turn up here. Though I am 
out on a holiday now,” he added with a smile. 

The friendliness of the smile encouraged Syl- 
via to ask how long he expected to be in Paris. 

“That depends,” he answered. “I thought of 
taking a run down to Venice — favourite place of 
mine for a lounge — but I may wait to see some 
friends I expected to find here,” and then he went 
on to speak of the Praeds, and to learn all that 
Sylvia knew about them. 

“And you will promise us something for the 
magazine — an illustrated series that would make 
up into book form later. The women of the 
Bonaparte family and their friends, eh ? Couldn't 
be better, that. We’ll take the first part as soon 
as you have it done. Pay on delivery. Good- 
day,” and he was gone, leaving a very different 
Sylvia from her he had found. 

Within an hour, she posted a simply polite note 
to Britski, acknowledging the money and saying 
that she would be too busy for a while with some 
magazine articles to undertake any fresh orders. 

She had hesitated about returning the money, 
but finally decided against doing so. It might 

279 


THE SNARE IS BROKEN 


be a mistake to shew her hand so plainly before 
she had reached more neutral territory than the 
Hotel Cleveland could possibly be. 

But that night she fell into a more peaceful 
sleep than she had known for weeks, with visions 
of fragrant meadows and cool streams. 


280 


XXVI 

VARNISHING DAY 

W HAT'S wrong with Garvie? He 
doesn't look as though he were 
getting the full change out of his 
success," said one of a group of 
English speaking artists on Varnishing Day. It 
was the crowded hour of the early afternoon, 
and already the year's successes and failures were 
decided on by the makers of opinion. 

Frye looked across to where Garvie stood, his 
hand effusively grasped in congratulation by one 
of the honoured masters of his craft. 

“He hardly seems up to the occasion,” he 
acknowledged. “Perhaps he thinks it good form 
not to betray his ecstasy. Or perhaps he is shy.” 
A general laugh greeted this suggestion. The 
laugh would have been louder if anyone had 
ventured to hint that the reasons for Garvie's 
ill-concealed grimness were sentimental ones; but 
it was, nevertheless, the fact. 

On this day of triumphant achievement, it all 
seemed stale, flat, and unprofitable to Garvie, just 
because a certain wilful young woman was not 
there to share it with him. Was it always to be 
like this, he wondered, with a dull pain at heart, 
281 


VARNISHING DAY 


and was the taste gone out of everything hence- 
forth? And then he set his face and determined 
that he would not spoil the fruits of his long effort 
because an ungrateful girl chose to believe the 
first hint of evil against him. 

His Theodora was already one of the sensa- 
tions of the season — the pallid-faced, red-lipped 
woman in her dull purple draperies and heavily 
jewelled Byzantine tiara leant, in a palpitating 
white heat of interest, on the marble balustrade 
of her balcony to watch the chariot-races of the 
rival factions, blue and green. There was a cruel 
joy in her eyes, as though they beheld the down- 
fall of a long-hated foe. 

The picture was hung on the line in the big 
room, and had already a crowd round it. 

On every side Garvie was greeted by the warm 
congratulations of men who knew the worth of 
the work, the continued toil it represented. 

“May I add my humble voice to the paean of 
praise?” came in honeyed tones from Britski, 
well-dressed, with a leisurely air of good-breed- 
ing. 

Garvie’s face hardened, as he met the glint of 
mockery in the grey eyes. 

“Thank you,” he said brusquely. “I think 
some share of the praise so kindly given me to- 
day should go to my model. You know her, I 
believe ?” 

Britski’s glance gave back the cold hostility 
of his. “The face does seem familiar to me,” he 

282 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


acknowledged. ‘‘Let me see — is there not a girl 
named Virginie Lapierre?’’ 

“Exactly so. What a good memory you 
have,” was the grim comment. “I was surprised 
to find the young lady in Tremalo the other day,” 
Garvie added. 

Not a quiver told that the shot had hit the 
target. “Indeed! With an artist?” Britski 
asked in a politely conversational tone. 

“No. She was going by the name of Made- 
moiselle de Rostrenan — that of an old family in 
the neighbourhood.” 

“Strange freak, that.” 

“Very strange.” 

“You are sure that there was no mistake?” 
I myself, have corresponded with a lady of that 
name.” 

“Exactly so. There was no mistake. I met 
and talked with her. Look here, Britski,” and 
his voice took a tone of haughty superiority. “I 
think the little game is about played out, and the 
lady had better retire with the honours of war; 
otherwise she may lose the chance of retiring at 
all.” 

For a moment the two men stood looking into 
each other’s eyes, and then with an open snarl, 
Britski spoke : “If Mr. Praed thinks differently, 
the opinion of Monsieur Garvie may not matter.” 

“That remains to be seen,” was the cool re- 
tort. “I may have more forcible means of ex- 
pressing it than you know. For instance,” and 

283 


VARNISHIIsrG DAY 


his voice sank impressively, might express 
it by cable to Mr. Praed’s sons, whose enquiries 
might start a Paris scandal involving the most 
unexpected people.” 

“That would be all very fine, provided that 
none of these people happened to be friends of 
yours, ^ce petit Thorpe, for example,” Britski 
sneered. “Might it not be wise to consider first 
if you wish to see him imprisoned for fraud? 
And a certain fair American, who copies old 
pastels so charmingly, what about her?” 

“You damned scoundrel!” Garvie muttered. 

“And the other young lady might not be so 
good a match, if her father were driven into a 
quarrel with his family,” went on the venomous 
voice. 

Fortunately, Garvie’s stick was in safe keep- 
ing down stairs, or it might have left its mark 
across that taunting face. As it was, his arm 
was raised before he remembered the folly of 
being drawn into a brawl with this adventurer. 

With a great effort at self-repression, he turned 
away, choking down his wrath with thought of 
the coming days of retribution. 

As he shoved his way through the crowd in- 
tent on soothing his ruffled composure with a 
solitary cigarette, a friendly hand grasped his 
arm. 

“Hello, Garvie, may lesser fry address your 
grandeur to-day?” came in the cheery tones of 

284 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Howe, the Philadelphian, whose studio had ad- 
joined Thorpe^s. 

Here was one who might aid the purpose of 
his righteous wrath. 

‘‘You are just the man I wanted to see,” Gar- 
vie said, drawing the young fellow into a quiet 
corner. “Look here, can you give me any news 
of Thorpe?” 

“The very thing I was going to ask you,” said 
the other. “Confound the fellow. He has kept 
us running around, playing games of questions 
for a month now. Yon see, it is this way. I 
fetched his rejected Salon picture back to my dig- 
gings before the framer could lay hands on it for 
his bill.” 

“Britski?” 

“No. He didn't want that wily spider to 
know about it. Owed him money, I suppose. 
Well, there it stood until the other day, when a 
seraphic cousin of mine, given to good works, 
fetches along a wandering millionaire to see my 
infantile efforts. To the dear woman's sorrow, 
he falls upon Thorpe's picture and insists on own- 
ing it at any price. I said the man who painted 
it was off mountaineering somewhere or other in 
Algeria, that I had lost his address, or never had 
it, — anyway, I got him to hold the bargain open 
until Thorpe should reappear, but, naturally, with 
every studio in Paris gaping at him, he won't 
wait for ever. Pity, isn't it?'’ 

Garvie’s mind worked busily while the other 

285 


VARNISHING DAY 


was speaking. Thorpe^s continued absence, gave 
substance to the fears aroused by Britski's open 
defiance. On Sylvia Dorr’s integrity, he would 
have staked his all, but in Thorpe was there not 
some fatal vein of weakness, nullifying his best 
gifts? Was it not possible that, disheartened by 
failure, he had allowed himself to sink into be- 
coming Britski’s tool? 

These misgivings bid Garvie walk warily in his 
inquiries. 

‘T thought he would have turned up by now. 
Still brooding over his sorrows in some country 
village, I suppose,” he said casually. ‘‘He ought 
to face the music like a man. If you should hear 
anything of him, let me know, will you ?” 

They parted, and Garvie went on to fresh 
greetings, to a smart restaurant dinner, and an 
evening at the opera. 

The next day at Monroe’s bank he brushed 
against a quietly dressed girl. Something fam- 
iliar in the outline made him take a second look. 
It was Sylvia Dorr, wan and thin, but with face 
spiritualized by days of steady constancy, of soli- 
tary waiting. She was unmistakably glad to see 
him, and something in the quiet eyes, raised to 
his, gave him a choking feeling as he recalled 
Britski’s calumnies. 

In his student days, he had been in love for a 
whole winter with the dainty school-girl, and 
this boyish admiration stirred him now to sterner 
purpose of vengeance on her behalf. 

286 



GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


‘T heard you had left Tremalo/’ she said, as 
he greeted her. 

“How ?’" he asked startled. 

“I had a letter from Julia yesterday,” she said 
demurely, and he asked no more, though he meant 
later to have a try at finding out the contents of 
of that letter. 

“You look as though you had been working 
too hard, and needed fresh air,” he commented. 
“I want a talk with you, and it is a lovely day. 
Don’t you think you might be very nice and come 
and drive up to the Bois with me?” 

Sylvia felt a pleasant sense of security in the 
presence of this fellow-countryman who had 
known her in her own home. 

The lonely terrors that had surrounded her 
seemed all at once to become vague as a remem- 
bered dream. She too wanted a talk with Gar- 
vie, and so it was very readily that she went with 
him out into the sunshine. 

A little open cab took them up the Avenue 
Friedland, and on into the wider spaces beyond. 

Garvie was keenly impatient to know if the 
marks of strain and stress in her face had any^ 
thing to do with Britski’s threats, but not wishing 
to startle her, he bided his time. 

“And how have things been faring with you?” 
he asked, as they drove along, and there was no 
perfunctoriness in the question. 

“Oh, with a mixture of good and bad, as life 
usually is, I suppose. But there was one bit of 

287 


VARNISHING DAY 


genuine luck — ” and she told of Mr. Stratton’s 
visit and its result. 

He congratulated her warmly, adding, “That 
is the last of wasting your time on fashion-plates, 
I trust. But you spoke of mixed good and bad — 
won’t you tell me what the bad has been? We 
are old friends, you know.’’ 

It had been perhaps the memory of that long- 
dead boy and girl flirtation which had caused 
Sylvia to shrink from the helping hand that he 
had tried more than once to give her. Now that 
she knew of his admiration for Julia, she felt free 
to revive the old friendship — besides, she had 
been so desperately lonely of late. 

With a sudden impulse of confidence, she be- 
gan and told him all; her visit with Miss Oakes 
to Meudon ; the Corot picture ; Madame Marcelle ; 
the portfolio of portraits. She even, after a 
desperate gulp of hesitation, forced herself to tell, 
with flushed cheeks, the incident of the Schwerer 
portfolios, her tea with Britski, Mr. Naftal’s gos- 
sip and Miss Cloude’s repetition of it. “They 
all seem little things in themselves,” she ended 
half-apologetically, “and perhaps I was foolish 
to be frightened, but I was all alone.” 

“They were not trifles, and you were quite 
right to be frightened,” Garvie interrupted. “He 
is a beast of prey, and deserves no more mercy 
than one.” 

And then, he in his turn, proceeded to tell the 
story of the Rosbraz chateau. 


288 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


“No wonder poor Julia’s letter seemed low- 
spirited,” she commented. 

“Was it low-spirited?” he demanded, as though 
the news were not unwelcome. “She has fool- 
ishly allowed some of the gang to poison her mind 
against me, which makes it so much harder for 
me to help her. They have told her some cock- 
and-bull story about that wretched girl, Virginia 
Lapierre.” 

They had by now left the cab and were sitting 
in one of the quieter alleys of the Bois, amid all 
the bravery of young leafage. Garvie was prod- 
ding nervously at the gravel with his stick, and 
Sylvia, watching his downcast face, found cour- 
age to reassure him. 

“She does not really believe any harm of you. 
She said she knew you had done your best to 
help her, and that she had been horrid to you. 
I think she is sorry. Do not be angry with her,” 
she pleaded. 

Garvie looked up with a very kindly smile on 
his face. 

“What a charming advocate you make ! I am 
not angry. I only came away because I thought 
that I had a better chance of attacking this wasps’ 
nest here. Your story makes me all the more de- 
termined. What we want now,” and he leant for- 
ward impressively, “is proof of fraud, positive 
enough to induce Mr. Praed to prosecute Britski. 
And I believe that if we could only find Thorpe 
we should get that proof.” 

289 


VARNISHING DAY 


Sylvia’s face was transformed as, with wet, 
eager eyes and trembling lips, she cried : 

“Oh, will you really try to find him? I have 
been sure from the first that it was Britski who 
drove him away, but I could do nothing by my- 
self,” and she caught her breath in a sob. 

Garvie watched her with grave compunction. 
He knew enough of women to be careful to give 
no hint of the theory he had entertained as to 
Thorpe’s and Virginie’s simultaneous disappear- 
ance, but there was one question that he must ask, 
painful though it might be to her. 

With carefully averted eyes, he began, “Tell 
me — do not be vexed, please — have you ever 
thought that he might be in fear of an exposure ; 
that he had been drawn into some fraud?” 

As he spoke, he saw creep over her face the 
ghastly shadow of an old, sickening doubt, a 
doubt that, scarcely acknowledged even to her- 
self, had yet power to haunt her night and day, 
to draw those pathetic lines on her face. 

Her hands were intertwined nervously, as she 
murmured, “Sometimes — I have been afraid that 
there might be something — that someone has a 
hold on him.” 

His pity for her distress urged him to spare 
her, but for her own sake, for Thorpe’s, he must 
get at what truth he might, and so he told her 
as gently as possible of Britski’s threats. 

She could not have grown paler than he was, 
but with a swift, beautiful glow she flashed out : 


290 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


may have been unlucky, but I am sure — oh 
I am sure — that he has never cheated anyone.” 

‘That is right,” Garvie reassured her, even 
though he had his own masculine doubts on the 
subject. ‘Then you are not afraid of my trying 
to find him?” 

It was the crucial test, and she quailed before 
it. Then, drawing a deep breath as though 
gathering all her forces, she said, quick and low, 
“No, I am not afraid.” 

“Well then, we will do our best. And — you 
must have thought it all over. Can you give me 
any hint as to where he would be likely to go?” 

She shook her head silently ; then, after a mo- 
ment’s thought, told him of the queer silversmith 
at Neuilly. 

“Strange,” Garvie muttered. “I have heard 
nothing of any gold or silver in the Rosbraz 
affair.” 

If only Julia had been in a more trustful 
humour on that last afternoon by the river, the 
tangle might have been the sooner unravelled, 
but so the Fates had ordered. 

“Well, anyway, I will explore the place, and 
then I will have a look round his haunts in the 
Quarter. And now I want you to do me a 
favour,” he added. 

“I will do anything you ask me,” shcibreathed 
fervently. 

“Do not be too sure. I want you to leave 
Paris at once. There, I knew you would not 


291 


VARNISHING DAY 


like the idea/' as a swift ‘‘oh!” of dismay fol- 
lowed his first words. 

“But why?” she protested. 

“Do you not see that if I were to hear where 
Thorpe was, I might want to be off at once to 
see him quietly, and find out the true state of 
affairs.” 

“Yes, but—” 

“And after what you have told me, how could 
I feel quite happy in leaving you alone here, right 
in the midst of the gang? The first hint of ex- 
posure may make Britski turn, venomous as a 
cornered rat. His wife is jealous of you, and 
there you are, working for her and living in her 
mother's house. I can only have a free hand if 
I know that you are out of reach of any harm 
from him.” He hesitated for a moment, and 
then went on, “And there is a way that you could 
help me, too.” 

“Oh, what is it ?” she asked eagerly. 

There was a touch of awkwardness in Garvie’s 
manner as he said, “You told me yourself that 
Miss Praed's letter shewed her low spirits, and 
you must realize what an anxious, a painful posi- 
tion she is in. Now, if you, who have more knowl- 
edge of the world than she can have, were with 
her, surely it would strengthen her hand and 
make her less unhappy — and me too,” he added 
with a passing smile. 

The protest was gone from Sylvia’s voice, 
“You are right, and I am a selfish creature. She 

292 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


urged me in her letter to come, but I just chose 
to fancy that I could not. I will go as soon as you 
like, and she and I will carry on the fight down 
there, while you — ” she paused anxiously, and 
Garvie filled the pause: 

‘‘You can trust me. I will do my very best 
to give Thorpe a new start, free from the toils. 
We are friends, you know,” he reminded her. 

‘T trust you fully,” she smiled at him. “When 
shall I go?” 

“The sooner the better. Day after to-mor- 
row? Can you manage that?” 

“I think so. I must pack and store every- 
thing, you know. Oh, and now I can send Brit- 
ski back the money for those portraits. I was 
frightened to, before. I am not afraid of him 
any longer.” 

“You never shall be again,” he assured her fer- 
vently. “But do not send the money. Give it 
to me at the station when I see you off. Yes, I 
mean to see you out of Paris with my own eyes. 
And look here. It is an expensive journey, 
and—” 

“Oh, I am quite rich,” she interrupted. “You 
know it was at the bank I met you. Surely it 
must be nearly dinner time. I ought to get 
home,” and full of their purposed campaign, they 
sought a cab and drove townwards. 


293 


XXVII 

MARCELLE’S TRAGEDY 

S PURRED by new hope, Sylvia lost no 
time in carrying out her plans. On 
their homeward way, she and Garvie 
stopped at a post-office and wired Julia 
that she was coming. That evening, carefully 
avoiding Madame Comerie, she left notice in the 
office of her departure. Then she slipped out to 
leave a note with Madame Marcelle's concierge, 
to say that, as she was going to the country for a 
holiday, she would not be able to do any more 
work at present. Without giving it any farewell 
character, she tried to make this note express 
something of the gratitude she had once felt; in- 
deed, still, in a fashion, felt towards the dressmak- 
er. Who has not known a severed friendship 
where, trust and confidence gone, the instinctive 
liking of natures sympathetically atuned lasts, and 
awakes at every meeting? The companionship 
of the friend who has failed us under stress of 
weather, gives nearly the same old pleasure that 
it did before. So now with Sylvia. The strain 
of personal fear once removed, the thought of 
evil days that Britski's exposure might bring to 
his wife, aroused her generosity towards the 


294 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


woman who had befriended her, and she resolved, 
if possible, to get away without an interview be- 
tween them. 

This resolve was defeated. She was busy the 
next morning in her dismantled room, packing 
away her belongings, when a knock came at the 
door. 

Scarcely leaving a pause for a response, the 
door was flung open, and Madame Marcelle ap- 
peared. Her hat and wrap were worn with less 
dainty precision than usual, and the raindrops 
of a heavy shower shone unregarded on her 
shoulders, while she held her gloves in her hand, 
together with an open letter. 

These tokens of a disturbing force were em- 
phasized in her face by a dismayed pallor, veiled 
with a tremulous smile. 

^^Mon enfant” she began, and through all her 
troubled haste the woman’s gracious charm still 
revealed itself. “Mon enfant, what does this 
mean? Why go off and leave me so suddenly 
at this, the busiest time of the year? You know 
I cannot spare you now.” 

She held out the letter as though Jt were an 
accusing fact, and Sylvia saw that it was her 
own. 

“1 am sorry. I feared it might inconvenience 
you,” she said, as she stood by an open box, her 
hands full of a sheaf of drawings. 

“Dame! It is more than inconvenience. But 
you will stay, now that you know ?” and she laid 


295 


MARCELLE’S TRAGEDY 


her free hand on Sylvia's arm with a persuasive 
gesture. 

“I cannot. I am sorry," Sylvia reiterated. 

“See, then. I will pay you double for every- 
thing if you will wait until after the Grand Prix." 

“Dear Madame, it is no question of money." 

“What is it then?" 

The keen question came in a flash that matched 
that of the blue eyes. 

Sylvia had long ago settled it with her Puritan 
conscience that absolute truth was not always 
possible in dealing with Parisians. The honester 
party suffered enough disadvantage without that 
added one. So now, with steady gaze, she 
answered : 

“I cannot go on working any longer. I do not 
eat or sleep, and the doctor says that^I must have 
complete rest and change, otherwise I shall be 
ill. And that, you know," she added with a wist- 
ful smile, “is a forbidden luxury to busy folk." 

Her wan face corroborated her words, and 
Marcelle for the moment seemed to believe her. 

“But you will promise to come back soon ? How 
soon do you think it may be?" she urged, fight- 
ing every inch of ground. 

For all her feeling of pity, Sylvia had no in- 
tention of yielding one point. 

“Ah, that I cannot say. If I can find material 
for some magazine articles, I may stay all summer 
in the country. One can live for so little in out- 
of-the-way places you see." 

236 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


A look of desperation came into the French- 
woman’s eyes as she asked, “Then you mean to 
give me up altogether?” 

“I may give up drawing fashions, but I shall 
never give up the thought of your kindness,” 
was Sylvia’s answer. It was the best she could 
do. Marcelle’s eyes filled with sudden tears, and 
with both hands outstretched, she pleaded : 

“Ah, do not go at all. Let me take you out 
to Meudon. There you can be all day in the 
fresh air and sunshine. You need only work 
when you choose.” 

Sylvia was profoundly puzzled at this persist- 
ence. She could see that the other’s distress was 
genuine, and yet — surely she could not have been 
mistaken about the watchful face at the cab win- 
dow, that day by the Luxembourg. Did the 
other woman read that memory in her face as she 
answered with a gentle shake of her head: 

“There would still be the atmosphere of Paris. 
I must get away where I never see or hear of 
fashions.” 

A little forced laugh came pitifully from Ma- 
dame Marcelle. 

“Well, then, you shall see and hear nothing of 
them at Mariposa. You shall wear reach-me- 
downs from the big shops, if you wish. I will 
put them on myself whenever I come near you. 
Heavens, what a bundle I shall be. There, will 
that content you, little one ?” 

It was the last time that Madame Marcelle 


297 


MARCELLE’S TRAGEDY 


ever called Sylvia ‘dittle one/' With the next 
words the chill of the girl’s gentleness seemed at 
last to reach her. 

“Dear Madame, you are kind to suggest it, 
but please do not press me any more. I want to 
get away altogether from Paris. My plans are 
made. I have promised to join an American 
friend at the seaside.” 

“Where?” 

The brief question was almost sullen. 

“She is to let me know our destination to- 
morrow.” 

The tightening lines of the other’s mouth told 
that she took in the full significance of the 
evasion. 

“Does Britski know that you are going?” was 
her next question. 

“Not unless you have told him,” and S3dvia’s 
voice was harder. 

*^Mon DieUj no!” came with a hoarse cry of 
despair. “He will be furious with me when he 
hears it. Ah, what shall I do? He will think 
that I have been alarming you, and driven you 
away.” 

“Why should he think that ?” 

Sylvia was very pale, but her voice had no 
faltering in it. Her pride was beginning to find 
the situation intolerable. 

“Because he will be angry, and when he is 
angry he can be cruel. Ah, I know that. You 
say I was kind to you once. If ever you thought 

298 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


so, come out with me to the villa to-morrow, 
only just for Sunday. That can do you no 
harm.” 

The appeal was wild, and might have stirred 
Sylvia’s pity but for her sense of outrage. No 
harm to pass a day under the roof of such a man 
as Britski! 

‘T cannot do that,” she said without any fur- 
ther attempt at excuse. 

“Because you have quarreled with him?” 

“I have not quarreled with him.” 

“You refused to do any more drawings for him, 
and he said that it must be my fault and that 
I had stopped you.” 

“You know the reason I refused to work for 
your husband ?” Sylvia demanded, her words like 
bared steel. 

A confused hesitation came into the other 
woman’s face. 

“No. How could I know ?” she faltered. 

“Yes, you do know,” Sylvia persisted, letting 
loose at last. “You know that those drawings 
were to be sold as forgeries, just as those I did 
for the Schwerer portfolios have been. I was 
to be entrapped, as Rupert Thorpe was trapped, 
and you were aiding him in it.” 

“On my honour, I could not help it,” the 
wretched woman protested. “He forced me into 
it, as he has already forced me into so many 
things. I was always honest with you until that 
evil day you came to the villa, and he saw you 


299 


MARCELLE’S TRAGEDY 


and went mad about you. Ah, what a torture 
my life has been since I first knew him.’’ 

‘Ts it not possible that you only fancy such 
things?’'’ Sylvia asked with the same chilling 
quiet. She was sorry enough for the poor soul, 
but she had to put a strong control on her wrath 
at Britski’s wife daring to be jealous of her. 

Madame Marcelle stood, monumental in sullen 
despair. 

*Tt is no fancy that he is realizing all the 
money he can, and getting it out of the business. 
He has sworn to me that it was not so, but he 
cannot deceive me in business affairs. I know 
that he is laying his plans to go away and leave 
me. Has he given you any hint of that ?” 

There was a new touch of insolence in the 
words, and Sylvia frankly recognized it in her an- 
swer. 

‘‘You have no right to ask me such a question,” 
she said. “I have not seen your husband since I 
finished those drawings. I hope never to see him 
again.” 

“Do not be too sure of that. He will not lose 
sight of you so easily. Sooner or later he al- 
ways runs down his game.” She paused, and 
then, defiance changing back into despair, said. 
“He has been devilish this past week. If you 
can, for pity’s sake tell me what is happening 
about that ^honhomme Praed’ to disturb him so?” 

Sylvia hesitated for an instant, during which 

300 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


her assurance of Britski’s approaching defeat con- 
quered her prudence, and she said : 

‘Tt can only be that he fears exposure. I sup- 
pose you know that he has filled that chateau 
in Finistere with antiques, supposed to belong to 
an old family, and has sent down a Parjs model 
to play the part of an orphan reduced to selling 
her ancestral inheritance.’^ 

^'Mon Dieu. No, I knew nothing of it,” 
Madame Marcelle gasped, and to her surprise, 
Sylvia saw that she was speaking the truth, and 
that the tidings were a grievous blow to her. 

“What is the model’s name?” she demanded, 
with strange eagerness. 

“Virginie Lapierre,” Sylvia answered. 

The other’s face grew, haggard as that of an 
old woman. 

''Sacristi! That creature of ill-omen,” she 
moaned. 

A sudden hope of getting at some information 
came to Sylvia. 

“Who is she ?” she asked briefly. 

“I do not know. I am afraid to know,” was 
the hoarse murmur, then as though anguish drove 
her into words, she went on. 

“She came, like him, from Poland or Hun- 
gary — who knows which ? I think she is a gipsy. 
When I first met Britski — unlucky day for me — 
he was a photographer, with a small place near 
the Gare Montparnasse. She helped him with 
his work, and posed for the photographs he sold 


301 


MARCELLE’S TRAGEDY 


to artists. I do not suppose you know the kind, 
but I have seen them. Then, little by little, he 
began to buy and sell pictures. It was my money 
that started him in the Avenue de T Opera. In 
return, he has nearly ruined me with his mad ex- 
travagance. The villa is only the smallest part of 
that. How I worked to help him on ! But,” with 
a new purpose in her tone, ‘Tor all that, I shall 
never turn against him. Promise me that you 
will not try to harm him,” she implored. 

Still Sylvia faced her with that steady quiet 
of settled purpose. 

“Will you tell me, then, where Rupert Thorpe 
is?” 

“He does not know. That is part of his ill- 
humour, for he misses him. He has made search 
for him. I think he is afraid that it means sui- 
cide.” 

Instead of faltering before the dread word, the 
spectre that had haunted her night hours, Sylvia 
flashed out : 

“If it does, he pays for it. See then, madame, 
I loved Rupert Thorpe as you loved Britski. I 
believe that at first you meant me no harm, and 
I am sorry for you. But I shall do all that I 
can to find Rupert Thorpe, dead or alive, and to 
punish those who wronged him. I am your hus- 
band’s enemy and ma}^- yet have to be yours. 
What is the good of talking any more? We only 
hurt each other.” 

“Are not you afraid that Britski may find 
302 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


means to stop your leaving Paris?’’ Marcelle 
whispered, with a furtive glance over her 
shoulder at the passage. There was a hint of 
dark fears in her words, and Sylvia shivered. 
Then, remembering Garvie, with the powers of 
the American embassy behind him, took courage. 

^T am not afraid of any harm he can do me,” 
she said. 

‘‘You do not know him as well as I do,” came 
in the same frightened whisper. “But, see,” in 
a firmer voice, “he shall have no chance to harm 
you, for I shall not tell him you are going. He 
may be angry with me,” with a hopeless gesture, 
“but, at any rate, you will be safe out of his way. 
I am a fool, but — well, I always fancied that the 
little girl baby I lost might have grown up to look 
like you — and so you won’t think too hardly of 
me?” she ended with a sob. 

Sylvia was genuinely touched. 

“Dear Madame,” she said, taking her hand, 
“I shall always remember how good you were to 
me. But surely, if he is cruel to you, it would 
be a good thing if he goes away and leaves you 
to make a fresh start for yourself. You are so 
clever that you could do it.” 

A strange smile lit the older woman’s face, as 
a stormy sunset lights a desolate landscape. 

“Ah, you have not yet learnt to love as I have 
malgre tout. Lucky for you, perhaps, if you 
never do. And now I must go. No, do not 
touch me,” waving off Sylvia’s proffered hand. 


303 


MARCELLE’S TRAGEDY 


Without further word she was gone, leaving a 
strange chill behind her. 

In spite of all reassuring thoughts, and a care- 
fully locked door, Sylvia was nervously alert 
throughout the night hours. But dawn came 
early, and with the dawn the old fears became 
unreal, and were left behind like outworn gar- 
ments in the garret room of the Hotel Cleveland. 

Garvie met Her at the station, and his friendly 
farewell was in her ears as the train glided out 
through the fortifications. 

On they went into the open country, where 
there were no Paris schemers, no Britski or his 
like. 

‘T never, never, want to live in Paris again,” 
she murmured, as she settled herself in her corner. 


304 


XXVIII 

THE PRODIGAL 

G ARVIE’S researches in the Quarter 
left him with reduced hopefulness. 
Nowhere in the studios could he 
gather word of any one, artists or 
models, having heard of Thorpe. The picture- 
dealers had not the slightest sketch of his among 
their stock. Not a man in the colour-shops had 
received a country order for paints or brushes. 

“And if ce peteit Monsieur Thorpe is still paint- 
ing, he would send to me. He never trusts those 
country shops,” said old Alain, familiar to gener- 
ations of students. 

“I believe he has gone touring with a photog- 
rapher's van. He always said he would take to 
that if other trades failed.” 

This was volunteered by Howe, the Philadel- 
phian, and was the sole suggestion Garvie 
received. Thorpe had simply disappeared as so 
many men do disappear in big cities, leaving no 
trace behind them. 

Neither had his hunt for the silversmith at 
Neuilly been more successful. No 28 was con- 
verted into a spic-and-span establishment for Eng- 
lish young ladies wishing to acquire a Parisian 


305 


THE PRODIGAL 


accent, with all the comforts of home life, under 
the care of a French Prostestant pasteur, with 
black beard and finger-nails to match. 

This worthy, who changed from servility to 
brusqueness when he discovered that Garvie had 
no youthful female relatives available, knew noth- 
ing as to any former tenants. 

The baker at the corner was more communica- 
tive. ‘‘Yes, those Germans had taken themselves 
off, one day, as quietly as they had come. Just 
as well, perhaps, for every concierge in the street 
was persuaded that they were spies. Money? 
Yes, they always had money. The woman often 
changed a gold piece when she bought provisions. 
What did blue-blouses like them do with gold 
pieces unless they were spies, or coiners perhaps. 
There was always smoke coming from one of the 
chimneys. All the street had seen it. No, he 
did not know where these people came from. The 
butcher asked the woman once, and she muttered 
something about the Moselle country, but they 
were Germans sure enough. The butcher’s wife 
said so, and she had once been to Strasburg.” 

The man seemed willing to talk indefinitely, 
but to little purpose, and Garvie went on his way, 
more disappointed than he cared to acknowledge. 
It was nearly a week since he had left Tremalo, 
and what anxieties might not Julia be suffering? 

He had stayed late at the club that evening, and 
as he went up the quiet Rue d’Assas, he had an 
uneasy feeling that someone was following him. 

306 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


When he reached his door, he looked over his 
shoulder to see a furtive figure coining along in 
the shadow of the houses. 

He rang, and as the door swung open in the 
mysterious fashion of Paris doors at midnight, 
the man behind brushed past with a whistk that 
had been a call in Julien's studio. 

‘‘Here ! Who are you,” Garvie cried out sharply. 

The night was one of alternate storm clouds 
and moonlight, and now, as the stranger turned, 
the moon shone forth, and Garvie found himself 
looking into the missing man’s face, ghastly in 
the white light. 

It was Thorpe, sure enough, but Thorpe bear- 
ing signs of fatigue and exposure, perhaps even of 
want, in shabby clothes and face that seemed all 
eyes and cheek-bones. 

“Heavens above! Is it you? Why, I have 
been searching the country for you.” 

As though to make sure that even now Thorpe 
should not evade him, Garvie grasped him by the 
arm, and felt how thin it was. 

“Do not be afraid, I am not a ghost. What 
there is of me, is real, anyhow. Yes, it is me, 
all right. May I come up to your place for an 
hour or so ?” 

There was nothing visible of the morbid pride 
in defeat that Garvie knew to be a characteristic 
of his. Instead, his attention was caught by a 
new sturdiness, that seemed to set the man above 
his travel-worn aspect. 


307 


THE PRODIGAL 


‘‘Of course you are coming up. Do not think 
I am going to lose sight of you again in a hurry. 
Wherever have you been hiding yourself?” 

‘T will tell you presently. Look here, can you 
give me some food? Anything will do. I have 
had nothing but a cup of coffee and a roll to-day.” 

“The food is there all right. Come along,” 
was all Garvie said as he led the way up to his 
third floor flat. He felt, with an inward groan, 
that every evil prophecy was being fulfilled by 
this return of the prodigal. 

A ‘short laugh greeted him. 

“Yes, I am just a common tramp, that they 
would set the dog on at home and I am half 
famished and footsore at that. But do not look so 
shocked. I tell you, I have got a lighter heart 
than I have known for many a day. I ran away 
under fire once, like a coward, but now I have 
come back tp face the music. If you will back me 
up, I will make you the instrument of justice,” 
he added, with a wistful look into the other’s face. 

“I will back you up, all right,” Garvie an- 
swered, and their hands met in a pledge given and 
received. That new purpose in Thorpe’s face 
made him give the promise without misgiving. 

“Thanks. You won’t mind my locking the 
door?” 

Without awaiting an answer, he crossed the 
passage to do so, explaining, “I would just as 
soon that no one knows I am in Paris yet.” 

Garvie watching him, remembered his request 

308 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


for food, and turned to explore. He produced 
from a cupboard a crock of pate, bread, a slice of 
gruyere and a bottle of Burgundy. 

“That is the best I can do,” he said. “But look 
here, I can go over to Clairons^ and get you some 
stew. They are always open, you know.” 

“Why, this a feast for a king. It is evident 
you do not know how tramps fare,” Thorpe pro- 
nounced with glistening eyes, as he fell to. At 
his first pause he spoke : 

“You did not mind my locking the door? I 
do not know that I really mean to hide. You will 
be better able to tell me if I need to, when you 
have heard my yarn. I am not going to shirk 
any of the penalities of my own folly, if only I 
can jump on a certain reptile and choke the life 
out of him.” 

“Meaning Britski?” 

“Exactly so. How did you guess ?” 

“Oh, well, things have been happening — ” 

“Have they?” and Thorpe looked up, a venge- 
ful light in his face. “They are welcome things 
if they reveal his cloven hoofs. But say, wont you 
talk while I eat? There is such a lot I want to 
know. How is Miss Dorr ?” 

His voice shook on the name, and Garvie took 
care not to look at him. 

Obediently he began and sketched the story 
that Sylvia had told him in the Bois. It was not 
long before his listener had dropped any pretence 
of eating, and more than once, explosive sacres, 


309 


THE PRODIGAL 


mingled with forcible Anglo-Saxon swear-words, 
interrupted the tale. 

As it ended, a brown, weather-worn hand 
seized Garvie’s in a vigorous grasp. 

“Good chum ! May I live to pay you back for 
befriending her. That settles it. I will get the 
knife into Britski, no matter what the cost is.’’ 

“Will the cost be heavy?” Garvie asked gravely. 
Britski’s threats were strong in his mind. 

“That remains to be seen. Anyway, I will pay 
the cost all right. And so you sent her to the 
Praeds at Tremalo? I rather fancy that old gentle- 
man is to be my weapon of retribution. He and 
his collection come into the story that I have to 
tell. But give me your version while I finish this 
gruyhe. Jove, it is marvel the difference a meal 
makes in a man.” 

Gravie told the tale of Virginie’s conquest of 
Mr. Praed, and his listener laughed out heartily. 

“It is no laughing matter to have Miss Praed 
in contact with that girl’s deviltry,” Garvie pro- 
tested with a touch of irritation. 

“You are right. It is not, at least it would 
not be, if their sublime impudence was not about 
to meet with a downfall. When you have heard 
my story, you will understand,” Thorpe said, set- 
tling himself for his narration. 

“Have a cigarette?” 

“Thank you.” And when he had started it, 
he began. 

Things already familiar to the other he passed 
310 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


over sketchily; to fresh facts he gave more mi- 
nute details. 

He spoke of his continued ill-luck, when the 
men around him were praising work that he could 
not exhibit, could hardly even sell. 

“Though I doubt if any of you knew how often 
I went hungry to bed,” he added. Then seeing 
the look of pain on Garvie’s face, “Not thgit it was 
your fault, old man. You would have fed me up 
like a prize pig every night for the asking, I 
know.” 

“I ought to have done it without the asking.” 

“You did, many a time.” 

There was an old dealer in second-hand rub- 
bish in a small den not far from Thorpe’s studio, 
and this Jew would occasionally take a canvas 
of his for a few francs. What became of them 
Thorpe did not know, for he never saw them 
afterwards in the dusty windows amongst the old 
iron and books. 

His discouragement had taken the freakish 
turn, which incipient despair sometimes mani- 
fests, and he would lounge in the Louvre or Lux- 
embourg, studying masters old and new, with the 
idea that by trying to curb his strong originality 
he might find the path to success. 

It was in accordance with this half- joking 
theory that, on a summer’s day excursion, he 
painted the sketch Sylvia had recognized at the 
Meudon villa. 


311 


THE PRODIGAL 


“I will give you ten francs for it,” said the 
Jew when he took it to him. 

To his protest that the sum hardly covered the 
cost of paint and canvas, the old man rejoined. 

“Twelve, then. Take it or leave it. I can buy 
a dozen as good any day.” 

The problem of to-morrow’s meals was too 
imminent for him to hesitate, and the sketch van- 
ished in old Abraham’s clutch. A day or two 
later, Thorpe was forced to swallow his pride and 
implore credit from Britski for the frame of a 
picture on which he based high hopes in an Ameri- 
can exhibition. 

The picture-dealer was quietly inexorable, and 
seemed to have reason on his side when he spoke 
of the unpaid frame for last spring’s Salon pic- 
ture. 

Thorpe was turning away in a grim silence 
that veiled a sickening sense of failure, when Brit- 
ski called after him. 

“By-the-bye, old Abraham persuaded me to 
take, as part of a bad debt, a little sketch he got 
from you, a vague landscape bit. I have an open- 
ing for such things just now, and if you can 
bring me some more in the same style and they 
satisfy me. You ought to do Cazin effects well — 
I will see about letting you have your frame. Only, 
you must work out its value before you get it. 
No more credit here — nor I think elsewhere,” he 
added significantly. 

It was a glimmer of hope on a desperate situa- 
312 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


tion. If he could get no more frames, all chances 
seemed closed to him. 

He hurried back to his studio, and hastily ran- 
sacking his studies, spoils of the past summer, he 
set to work on them as he had never worked be- 
fore. In two days, three more small canvases 
were taken to Britski. Two he chose, rejecting 
one that was most up-to-date in treatment. 

‘‘There is a demand for things of the Barbizon 
school — stick to that,’’ he said. “Bring me more 
like these two, and you shall have your frame.” 
The others were painted and brought, and Britski 
promised the frame. 

Leaving the shop with a lightened mind, Thorpe 
threw a careless glance at the window, where, as 
usual, the red velvet draperies set off one or two 
choice paintings. What was his amazement to 
see, in the central place of honour, his own Ville 
d’Avray landscape, his careless initials obliterated, 
and the unmistakable signature of Corot in their 
place. 

This, then, was the reason of the order. This 
was the demand for the Barbizon school ! He had 
sunk to be one of those forgers of better men’s 
work of whom he had heard, men whose course 
lay 

In the scorn of the Outer Dark 
that surrounds the artistic Bohemianism of great 
cities. 

In his first wrathful impulse, Thorpe turned 
to re-enter the shop, but a sense of pride checked 


313 


THE PRODIGAL 


him, making him unable to put this shameful 
thing into words. 

And so he strode away to hide in the solitude of 
his studio, even the street passers-by seeming to 
come too near to the raw edges of the wound. 

The careless life he had led had tarnished many 
of his personal ideals, but its corroding fog had 
had no powder to assail the lofty heights where 
he had enshrined his art. Those had hitherto 
remained clear and undimmed. Now, the dark- 
ness seemed to have engulfed him and them alike. 

It was two days before he mustered courage 
to return to face the foe. 

‘‘See here,’’ he began brusquely,” I am not go- 
ing to do any more more of those ‘Barbizon 
school’ things.” 

“Indeed, and why not ?” was the suave reply. 

“Because, whatever failure I may be, I am not 
the forger you seemed to think me when you 
had the damned cheek to put that thing in your 
window re-signed as a Corot.” 

“And I suppose you never dreamt of such a 
possibility when I took the painting that had no 
value under your own signature?” sneered Brit- 
ski. Then with an abrupt change into the voice 
of an angry slave-driver : 

“See here, then. That frame is not delivered 
to you yet, and it never will be if you turn coward 
and make any trouble now. If you are fool enough 
to quarrel with your bread-and-butter, I have a 
newspaper man or two at my beck and call who 


314 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


will soon have some nice little paragraphs going 
the rounds, to tell how the disreputable young 
rapin, Rupert Thorpe, tried to takejn the high- 
toned picture-dealer. Monsieur Britski, with 
clumsy forgeries. Go home now and paint me a 
Cazin, as you can paint it if you choose.’^ 

In a choking mist of helpless wrath, Thorpe 
walked away, to go down into dark valleys of 
humiliation. It was in those days that he began 
to give up meeting Sylvia Dorr. He would have 
avoided all his comrades if the persistent friend- 
ship of Garvie, Frye and Howe had not made 
this impossible. 

He mechanically carried out, with a certain 
fatal dexterity, the orders he received from Brit- 
ski. All feeling seemed numbed into quiescence. 
He had just enough purpose left in him to go on 
with the Salon picture, begun with such high hope, 
and to hoard every possible franc towards getting 
it framed without Britski's knowledge. No 
shadow of his evil genius, he was resolved, should 
fall on the one thing into which he put a super- 
stitious hope. It alone could save him from his 
enemy's clutches. It became his fetish, and when 
too exhausted to stand any longer before it, brush 
in hand, he would sit staring at it studying every 
detail with a view to possible improvement in 
repainting. Throughout this tragic time, he was 
not without glimpses of Sylvia, for, knowing so 
well the routine of her life, he could often watch 
her from a distance as she came or went. Not too 


315 


THE PRODIGAL 


often, though, for the sight would sometimes 
unman him, forcing him down into the depths 
where death beckoned to peace. 

He had enough stuff in him though to set his 
teeth and mutter, ‘Tt will take more than Britski 
to drive me out of thp world. 

The day that Garvie found him at the Taverne 
du Pantheon, the waters seemed to be near closing 
over his head. The offered chance of painting 
Julia Praed’s portrait roused him into a fresh 
struggle for existence, and the meeting with 
Sylvia acted on him like a saving spell. 

If he ever had enough success for his work 
to become of any value, he said to himself, why 
should he not be able to buy Britski off with the 
sacrifice of an occasional picture. Surely it must 
be to the man’s advantage for his work to increase 
in price. 

Once free of him, he would go back to America, 
and try for portrait painting. These new hopes 
were dashed to the ground by Britski’s curt man- 
date to drop the portrait, and go away to the 
country for a week or two. 

He rebelled against this order, and, defying 
Britski, announced his intention of keeping on 
with the work. 

‘^Very well, in a few days you shall see what 
power I have to make or mar,” was the retort. 

He did see, when the refusal of his Salon pic- 
ture came, a picture for which good judges had 
predicted a No. 3. He was crushed. It was evi- 

316 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


dent that Britski intended him to remain the poor 
tool he had become, lost to all his early promise. 

He wrote the letters to Julia Praed and to Syl- 
via, letters which cut him off from his friends, 
and after posting them went back to hide himself 
in his studio. 


XXIX 

HUSKS 

T he night that followed was a momentous 
one for Thorpe, for throughout its 
sleepless hours it was a toss-up whether 
or not he would then and there end a 
life stamped failure. 

Some inherent sturdiness of nature prevailed, 
or perhaps it was his very youthfulness that cast 
the die. It does not come easy to turn one’s back 
on the world at twenty-five. 

Mechanically he began to pack his things as 
though for a journey. The action in a measure, 
cleared his brain, and as he worked, a certain 
purpose evolved itself in his mind. He was not 
going to forge any more pictures at Britski’s 
orders, and he was not going to sink into one of 
the more or less disreputable hangers-on of the 
studios and cafes of the Quarter, who live on 
borrowed five franc pieces and lie in paupers 
graves. Neither was he going to be driven out of 
the world, which besides containing Sylvia Dorr, 
held so much beauty. 

Billows and breeze, mountains and seas, 

Mountains of rain and sun. 

318 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


What was he to do then? The one thing cer- 
tain was that he must get away from Paris, where 
Britski blocked every road. 

There were other places besides Paris, though. 
He had not enough money to take him to Amer- 
ica, or to make a fresh start among the artist 
groups of Munich or Venice. 

Then the wayfaring instinct of men who had 
hewn down northern forests, had crossed prairies 
to make themselves a home, revived in him their 
descendant. He would go out on foot into the 
green highways where the solitudes of sun and 
wind might wash the city stains from his spirit. 

He would, for a time at least, leave the craft 
he had debased, and take up some humbler fashion 
of earning his bread. 

As these vague thoughts took shape, he was 
scattering the contents of a cupboard used as a 
lumber-room. Here was the camera, which, one 
time when cash was more plentiful, he had bought 
to use for studies of boys bathing. 

He had grown skilful in photography, and, but 
for the expense of materials, might have gone on 
using it to fix a difficult pose, or a study of drap- 
ery. The camera was good, and the whole outfit 
was lightly made for traveling. 

As he looked at it, his own careless words of 
the day before came back to him, bringing a sar- 
donic grin to his face. 

Why not turn traveling photographer, going 
far from railways, putting up at village-inns. 


319 


HUSKS 


haunting fairs, working south as winter came, 
according to the fashion of tramps the world 
over? 

At all events, he might in that way keep him- 
self honestly, and hide himself from all who had 
ever known Rupert Thorpe. 

In the blind alley to which he had come, even 
this opening seemed tempting. No sooner was 
the idea entertained than it was acted on. 

In the sunny April days, Thorpe was tramping 
the pleasant vineyard country of Champagne, his 
face turned eastward. He had taken the train as 
far as Troyes, so as to get well beyond the suburbs 
of Paris, and plunged into the heart of rural life, 
keeping clear of anything larger than a village. 

The adventures, good and bad that he en- 
countered, would make a story in themselves. At 
first, he tramped in bitterness of spirit, caring 
little where he went or what happened to him. 

But the outdoor life and exercise, the isolation 
among those who bore hard work and scant food, 
and utter absence of comfort and pleasure with the 
stoicism of habit, often with cheerfulness, acted 
gradually as a tonic, and in a fortnight he had 
acquired the armour of a new philosophy of life. 

In his worst time, he had lost even the artist’s 
power of vision, but now as he went his way, the 
world once more became to him a possible series 
of great pictures, of studies to be thought out with 
loving care, and his fingers itched to be at work 
again. 


320 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


With the restored activity of his mind, he 
realized that he had made but a poor fight of it 
against Britski ; that he had been a fool to let him- 
self be driven out without asking advice from 
any friend. Surely, it must be possible with so 
unscrupulous a man to find the weak point in 
which a counter attack might be made. 

He was daily drawing nearer to the regions 
where the Moselle winds through the lower slopes 
of the Vosges mountains, and the villages began 
to have a less purely French aspect. 

‘‘Monsieur is going to Epinal?’^ said the inn- 
keeper as they smoked their evening pipes to- 
gether on a bench before the door. 

“Epinal!” What associations made the name 
sound familiar? He had certainly never been 
nearer the place than he was now. 

A tall, blonde-haired woman in a blue cotton 
dress, passed along the road, and as she went sup- 
plied the missing link of memory. 

It was Marie Krugg, the silversmith’s wife 
at Neuilly, of whom the woman reminded him, 
and it was she who had told him that she came 
from Epinal. 

He had met this queer couple when, late one 
evening, he had gone on some half-furtive errand 
to Britski. He had been struck by their sullen 
shyness as of untrained animals astray in city 
streets, and following them out, had begun to talk 
to them. 

His casual fashion won their confidence, and 
321 


HUSKS 


he paid them more than one visit at Neuilly, and 
even gave some hints in drawing to the husband, 
who apparently, half-idiotic in all the affairs of 
daily life, was little short of a genius in his craft. 
Marie, who seemed the leading spirit, asked him 
questions which revealed a fear of Britski, and a 
desire to be back again in her own little town 
whence the dealer had tempted them. At first, 
Thorpe supposed that the work done for Britski 
was merely a matter of repairing old metal work, 
but one day he saw on the silversmith’s bench, 
a porringer that was a gem of workmanship. 

“Hello,” he said, taking it up, “this doesn’t 
need repairs, surely? It’s fifteenth century, isn’t 
it?” 

The man shook his head solemnly. 

“It is new. I made it,” he said in his usual 
monosyllabic fashion. 

“You! But it is pure cinque-cento. Where 
did you get the design ?” 

“He gave it to me, and I copied it,” was all the 
answer. 

It was that day that Marie Krugg, coming in 
from her marketing, broke out into frightened 
sobs over the enmity of the neighbours. 

“They think us German spies,” she said; “a 
little more and they will treat us as such. I don’t 
care what any one pays for work that may end us 
in prison. Next week I shall take my man and 
we will go back to Epinal. I am frightened here. 
Perhaps you may pass by there some day,, Mon- 


322 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


sieur, and will come and see us in the Rue de la 
Vielle Tourelle/’ 

This was the last time Thorpe had seen them, 
and now, as he idly wondered what had become 
of them, it suddenly dawned upon him that if he 
could only find these people, here was his aveng- 
ing weapon ready to his grasp. He knew that 
they had been working for Britski, whom he be- 
lieved they feared and hated. He also knew that 
they looked on him as a friend, and so would 
probably tell him anything he wanted to know. 

What a fool he had been not to think of them 
before. 

Now, the question was, were they still in Paris, 
or had they returned to their home ? He was only 
a few hours distance from Epinal and he would 
go there first, and make enquiries ; if that proved 
fruitless he would return to Paris by train. He 
had been lucky of late in his visits to prosperous 
farms where the young folks wanted their pic- 
tures taken, and he had enough money for the 
journey, third class. That day a mail cart took 
him to Epinal, nestling against the slope of the 
Vosges with its ruined castle still keeping watch 
above. 

The friendly driver pointed out to him as they 
jolted over the stones, the direction in which lay 
the Rue de la Vielle Tourelle and he was soon 
exploring that quiet street that skirted the great 
blind wall of a turreted convent. 

Down by the river, was the modern stir of 


323 


HUSKS 


factory and warehouses, up here among churches 
and schools reigned an ecclesiastical stillness. 

Ah, here was a tobacconist’s where news is 
always to be found, for those who do not smoke 
yet buy postage stamps. 

August Krugg? He who did the silverwork 
for the priest? Yes, indeed, he and his wife had 
come back from Paris, where they said the people 
were wicked and thought them spies. No doubt, 
August was a German from beyond Strasbourg, 
but Marie had been born in sight of Epinal, out 
there across the river, and had learnt her work 
of repairing church embroideries from the nuns 
up at the convent. Their house ? Yes, they lived 
above the little shop where holy things were sold, 
rosaries and candles for the church. 

‘‘We are pious folk up here, Monsieur,” the 
man ended with a fat laugh, “all save me, who 
would not have got this tobacco-shop from the 
government if I were.” 

The little shop with its window-full of ecclesias- 
tical odds and ends was soon found, and above it, 
in a neat flat were the Kruggs. 

Marie was, as usual, standing before her frame 
where an old church banner was undergoing 
repairs, and a regular tinkling beat from the back 
room told that her husband was at his trade. 

Her welcome was warm. 

“August,” she cried, “here is the gentleman 
who was good to us in Paris.” 

August appeared, in his long white blouse, 


324 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


quite able to speak French when it suited his 
humour. 

Their tale was soon told. Marie had got an 
idea that Britski was a Jew, and that she would 
peril her soul by traffic with him. Coming across 
a priest from her own Lorraine, she had told him 
of her fears; of the secrecy as to their work on 
which Britski insisted; of the costly objects which 
her husband was making from the models and 
drawings supplied to him, objects which were 
taken after dark to the shop, and never exhibited 
in the galleries. “Things that had strange figures 
on them instead of the saints,” she said. 

The priest had given her the good advice that 
such secrecy implying fraud, the sooner she and 
her husband gave up the work and went home, 
the better. They went together to tell Britski 
that they must leave Paris, but brought down on 
their heads an avalanche of wrath in which he 
declared that if they made any difficulties he 
would have August arrested on the charge of 
selling him modern work for old. “And he will 
be put in prison until he is an old man, and will 
have to sit idle in the dark all day,” he ended. 

The terrified pair submitted, and beat a hasty 
retreat. 

Again Marie sought the friendly priest for 
counsel, but he was out of town for a few days, 
and they dared not wait. 

/Hastily packing their few belongings, they 
left Paris, only breathing freely when once more 

325. 


HUSKS 


under the wing of their church patrons at Epinal. 

‘'And August is making a beautiful mon- 
strance for the cathedral at Nancy. The cathe- 
dral ! fancy then, monsieur T’ Marie added 
proudly. 

Her face had lost its sullen gloom and she 
looked young and pretty. 

A canary sang in the window above a row of 
plants, and there was an air of peaceful happiness 
over the little household. 

Thorpe felt his heart swell with sympathy for 
these simple folk. With all their simplicity, they 
had been more adroit than he, in freeing them- 
selves from the spider ^s web. Now, to impress 
them with the dangers they had escaped, and to 
get at what incriminating facts they could supply 
him with. 

“You were right,” he said shaking his head 
solemnly. “He is a Jew and a bad man into 
the bargain. Those things that August made, he 
was selling to rich men at a hundred times the 
price he paid you. But people have found him 
out, and he may be put in prison himself before 
long. If you had stayed he would have tried to 
cast the blame on you.” 

“Holy Virgin!” Marie cried as she crossed 
herself. 

“You said that I was your friend in Paris,” 
Thorpe went on, “and if you can help me to any 
proof against this rascal, you will be doing me a 
great kindness, for he harmed me a§ much as he 

326 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE. 


said he would harm you. He has driven me away 
from my work, and I cannot go back to my 
friends or to the pretty girl who loves me — ” 
Marie clasped her hands in an ecstasy of senti- 
mental sympathy — “until I can prove what tricks 
he has played.’’ 

He paused, and husband and wife looked at 
each other. “The drawings! Fetch them, then, 
August.” 

Then Thorpe heard how every drawing and 
working plan supplied by Britski had to be re- 
turned on completion of the order. With the 
cunning that often accompanies a slow intellect, 
August had made minute tracings of each design 
before surrendering it, and had carefully saved the 
papers. These papers, Thorpe unrolled with an 
interest that was almost painful. They might 
mean so much to him. 

Absorbed as he was in his own aspect of the 
affair, his trained eye took in with delight the 
beauty of design. 

Here, amongst others, was a patera chased with 
reliefs that seemed to portray the contest between 
Bacchus and Hercules. It was bordered with 
medallions evidently representing Roman em- 
perors. 

A second piece, a large dish, was embossed 
with scenes from the story of the abduction of 
Briseis and her restoration to Achilles. 

“And you made these things — you?” he asked 
in amazement, of the placid-faced workman. 


327 


HUSKS 


‘‘I did them all — in silver/’ was the proud reply. 
[Then, understanding Thorpe’s incredulous stare, 
he added, “I could not have done them if I had 
not worked for years in the studio of Schwartz, 
the great bronze-maker.” 

In all, August seemed to have produced about 
eight or ten of these works of art for Britski. 

‘‘The last one he hurried me with, and when 
I took it to him he bade me carry it into a room, 
and there were all my beauties being packed away 
in cases. And the name painted on each case 
was the same. I remembered it, and Marie wrote 
it down. Here it is.” 

Thorpe’s head was swimming with his own 
success, as he read the address to a 

Maison Guillou, 

Lorient, 

Department of Morbihan. 

To be forwarded by sea. 

He would have been puzzled enough at this 
costly stuff, fit only for state museums or a mil- 
lionaire’s collection, being sent to such a remote 
corner of France, if he had not heard Mr. Praed 
talk by the hour, during his studio visit, of the 
wonderful Breton chateau with its still intact an- 
cestral plenishings, which Britski had discovered 
for him. 

Now it was all plain enough. The man had 
actually had the impudence to stuff some old house 
with rubbish to be palmed off on Mr. Praed as 
genuine. He had gone too far, and delivered 
himself over into the hands of his enemy. 

328 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


With grim triumph, Thorpe reviewed the situ- 
ation. He knew that Garvie was interested in the 
Praeds and would be willing to make an effort, 
if only for the daughter's sake, to free the father 
from the humiliating position of a dupe. 

Garvie had been his friend too — so, indeed, 
had the Praeds — but perhaps he had disgusted 
them all by his unreliability. Perhaps Garvie 
might refuse to believe his story. 

Well, if it came to facing his former friend’s 
contempt, he would take his punishment manfully. 

There was nothing he dreaded like being 
branded before those who had made his world, 
comrades, older men who had praised his work, as 
one who had debased his art, but if that too must 
come, it must. All his heart was set on the defeat 
of Britski, on winning back to the honest stand- 
ing he had lost. 

He would make his way to Paris and find Gar- 
vie, and consult him as to the best means to cow 
Britski into harmlessness. 

If in so doing he were to be of service to the 
Praeds, all the better, for he had kept a warm 
memory of father’s and daughter’s kindness. 

And so it was with spirit eager for the fray that 
he persuaded the Kruggs to entrust the drawings 
to him, and prepared to start for Paris. 

Then came a reverse of fortune that checked 
him with its renewal of ill luck. In his last 
day’s journey he had lost one of his cherished 
gold pieces that made travel by train a possibility. 


329 


HUSKS 


It was a knock-down blow, and for an hour or 
so he paced the river bank in sombre mood. But 
his new purpose was not to be readily abandoned. 
If he might not go by train, he would start afoot. 
With luck he might earn enough to pay his rail- 
way fare for the latter part of the way. 

It was done. Sometimes on foot, sometimes 
getting a day’s drive; once or twice, going a bit 
of the way by train. 

He often slept in barns, now and then under 
the stars. He spent not a sou more on food than 
was needed, but at last, gaunt and travel-worn, 
he reached the bourne of Garvie’s studio. 

“I never dared think what I would do if you 
were still la has, for you are the only man I felt 
I could ask for some cash to go on with,” he 
ended. ‘'And now tell me,” with a painful fixity 
of stare, “do you think that I can ever take my 
place as an honest man among you all again ?” 

Through Garvie’s mind flitted a jumble of old- 
Sunday school lessons, “the ninety-and-nine which 
needed no repentance,” “the sheep which was 
lost,” but such phrases would have sounded in- 
congruous to them both and he could only stam- 
mer : 

“My dear fellow — don’t be morbid — you’re all 
right.” 

Poor as the words were, they served their turn, 
for the other muttered hoarsely: 

“I knew you would not go back on me. And I 
do not mind you knowing, but if Britski gets 


330 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


cornered and brings it all out, it will be hard to 
have all the other fellows talking of it, and Sylvia, 
though I would tell her if ever I saw her again — ’’ 

You will see her soon enough,” Garvie inter- 
rupted, “for in my opinion, the best thing we can 
do is to start right away for Tremalo, and tell Mr. 
Praed the whole story. Between you and me, we 
ought to convince him that he must shake off this 
scum that have fastened on them. You do not 
know the service you are doing me in enabling 
me to get Miss Praed out of this unpleasant posi- 
tion,” he added, more gravely. 

He had struck the right note, and Thorpe 
brightened to it. 

“And what is more, you don’t need to ask cash 
from anyone,” Garvie went on, “for you have 
only to cross the gardens to Howe’s diggings 
where you will find a millonaire sitting on the 
doorstep begging to be allowed to buy your ‘St, 
John’s Eve.’ ” 

“Do not fool me, there’s a good chap,” Thorpe 
pleaded, paling under his tan. 

“It is truth, I tell you.” 

Thorpe shook his head. 

“It does me good to hear that someone wants 
the thing I nearly broke my heart over, but I 
could not sell it now, you know.” 

“Why not?” 

“It would not be fair, when my name may be 
in all the papers any day.” 


331 


HUSKS 


“It is not going to be. I will see to that. But 
come, you are dropping with sleep. We can set- 
tle the rest to-morrow.” 


332 


XXX 

THE FATTED CALF 


T horpe slept on the studio sofa saying, 
‘‘Lord, it's a bed of down compared to 
my late average. And then — I re- 
member a picture in a Pilgrim’s Pro- 
gress I used to look at on Sundays when I was a 
kid. There was a big, fat bundle rolling off 
Christian's back, while he danced a sort of re- 
ligious Highland fling. Well, I feel just like that. 
I will sleep as only a tramp can sleep.” 

He was as good as his word, and Garvie had 
to shake him into wakefulness the next morning, 
for there was much to be attended to, if they 
were to leave town that night. With the awaken- 
ing came matutinal doubts, doubts whether he 
was fully armed to attack Britski. 

“Do you feel sure those drawings are proof 
positive enough to convince old Praed against his 
will ?” Thorpe asked as they sat over their coffee. 
“For if they do not, he will be ramping round 
like the American eagle on the warpath. If, after 
all, there should not turn out to be any silver 
amongst the stuff Britski has put in the chateau, 
it strikes me that our case may fall through.” 

But Garvie was steadfast in his opinion. “I 


333 


THE FATTED CALF 


am utterly and totally sure that no sane man can 
help believing us. Let alone your and my iden- 
tification of Virginie, and those photos I told you 
of, I am certain the silver that Krugg made is 
there and will be our proof. All along, I have 
been puzzled as to Britski's reason for making 
such an outlay, and running such risks for so 
small an affair as the mere selling of that amount 
of furniture would be to him. Now, if that stuff 
they shewed me was merely used as a screen to 
the real venture, it explains everything, every- 
thing, that is, except how he persuaded Mr. 
Praed to keep from talking about the silver. He 
must be asking a fortune for work like that.” 

“Still, you do not know that it is there?” 
Thorpe persisted. 

“Where else could it be? We know that it 
was sent to Lorient, the nearest seaport. But, 
anyway, to satisfy you, I will wire Miss Dorr 
and find out for certain. I meant to let her know 
that you have turned up safe and sound.” 

Casual as was the suggestion, it made Thorpe 
wince with new sensitiveness. 

“Why should she care where I am?” he mut- 
tered. 

Seeing that it was not a time to mince matters, 
Garvie spoke out, “Why she should I can not 
say, but that she does I will vouch my soul for. 
Heavens and earth, you idiot, when you get such 
a woman to care as she has cared, to wait and 
watch for news, to refuse to believe anything 


334 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


against you, to persist that you were wronged — 
well, I can only say that you are a pretty lucky 
fellow.” 

‘‘God knows I am !” Thorpe said, low and 
tense, standing at the window, his back turned to 
the other. 

For a moment there was a surcharged silence, 
then Garvie went on briskly, ‘T will give you a 
bit of advice: If that millionaire of Howe’s ma- 
terializes, you take the money for your picture, 
get married, and go and make a fresh start at 
home.” 

Still Thorpe stood staring out at the opposite 
houses. At last he spoke in the hard, brief 
words of deep feeling: 

‘^How can I think of accepting any man’s 
money for a picture of mine, or of asking Sylvia 
Dorr to take my name, before I know that it is 
safe from Britski’s malice?” 

Garvie saw that it was no use to urge him 
further. 

“Thinking about it can do no harm,” he re- 
torted lightly. “’Meantime, we will send that 
wire.” 

He had taken up a pencil when Thorpe inter- 
rupted: “Look here. Do not think me too 
cranky to live, but I’d rather you did not wire. 
I’d like just to go to her — ” He stopped, and 
then went on in a more ordinary voice. “After 
all, I am certain you are right, and that the silver 
is there, sure enough. And if the story I have 


335 


THE FATTED CALF 


to tell does not convince any sane man — well, 
then, he is not sane, and must be locked up/’ 

Garvie laughed and yielded the point, though 
he would have dearly liked to open up communi- 
cation with the Tremalo garrison. 

His forbearance was rewarded by the post- 
man’s advent with a letter from Sylvia, telling of 
her arrival, and adding* a few words about Julia 
that, while not betraying confidences, yet brought 
an eager light to Garvie’s eyes. She was lonely 
and downcast, missed him ; welcome news to any 
lover. 

A rapturous shout from Garvie startled Thorpe. 

‘The silver’s there, sure enough, and Britski 
is at our mercy. Just listen,” and he read out the 
account Julia had given her friend of her visit to 
Rosbraz. 

“Mr. Praed must prosecute now,” Thorpe 
commented vindictively. 

“I am afraid his wisest plan will be to hush it 
up,” Garvie regretted. 

Sylvia went on to tell of Mr. Praed’s intention 
of buying Rosbraz, and ended with a strong cau- 
tion as to his growing infatuation and the need of 
haste in any exposure. “I should not be sur- 
prised to hear any day now of his marriage,” she 
said. 

“Thank goodness, it is not so simple a matter 
to get married in France as it is in America,” 
Garvie added. 


336 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Thorpe only reached out his hand for the let- 
ter, as though hungry to touch it. 

Garvie now made ready to go out and attend 
to some necessary business, while Thorpe stay^ed 
indoors, out of reach of chance encounters. 
Garvie was to go to Howe’s studio and get a 
trunk that Thorpe had left there. 

‘‘Afraid you will have a long day of it,” he 
said. 

Thorpe looked up from a blissful contemplation 
of Sylvia’s letter. 

“Oh, I shall enjoy the novelty of indoor life, I 
guess. If I might paint — ” he added, with a 
wistful glance towards his friend’s easel. 

“Paint all you like, of course. You will find 
pochards and canvases behind the screen,” 
Garvie answered, pretending not to see how 
Thorpe’s hands shook with eagerness as he took 
up palette and brushes. 

He found Howe in his studio, and at first had 
a little difficulty in quenching his eagerness to 
sell Thorpe’s picture. As soon, however, as 
Howe saw that there was something not to be 
told, he waxed discreet, and took no interest in 
the destination of the trunk. The friendships of 
young men are the only ones unaffected by reser- 
vations. 

“If you should come across Thorpe,” he said 
at parting, “do get him to let me sell his picture. 
It is a pity to miss such a chance.” 


337 


THE FATTED CALF 


‘Tt is all that/’ Garvie agreed.^ 'T am off to 
Tremalo tonight, and I may see him there/’ 

‘'Off again? Why, you have only just come 
back. There must be a strong attraction down 
there to keep you from running the successful 
man business in town. Why, you will never be 
a lion if you do not let people hear you roaring 
round a bit.” 

“Oh, I will roar round all right, afterwards,” 
was all Garvie answered. 

That afternoon an appointment with a friend 
took him to the Salon. 

One of the first people he saw was Miss Oakes 
in the stiff splendour of her Sunday dress, ab- 
sorbed in study of the pictures as expounded by 
David Frye. Noting their evident pleasure in 
each other’s society, Garvie checked his first im- 
pulse to join them. 

“The old woman-hater,” he chuckled, and 
turned in another direction. After all, it would 
have been difficult to talk to them without telling 
of Thorpe’s return, and that was best kept secret 
for the present. 

The next familiar face he spied in the crowd 
was Mrs. Mallock’s. The expensive cosmetics 
lavished on that face were powerless to conceal 
her haggardness of anxiety. It twitched the cor- 
ners of her mouth, it lurked in her furtive eyes. 
There was a queer flash of terror in those eyes as 
they met Garvie’s. Then, without any sign of 
recognition she was sidling away into the crowd. 

338 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


‘‘The woman’s frightened of me. All the more 
reason I should tackle her/’ he determined with a 
sudden inspiration. 

A man can always make his way through a 
crowd quicker than can a woman. He has no 
skirts to be trampled on, no laces to catch on op- 
posing objects. Mrs. Mallock made the fatal er- 
ror of leaving the throng, and slipping into a de- 
serted room devoted to architectural drawings. 

Here Garvie cornered her, and seeing flight 
useless, she turned at bay with the ghastly sem- 
blance of a smile. 

“Mr. Garvie! Why I thought that you were 
still in Brittany with our friends, the Praeds.” 

“I suppose that was why you sent Miss Praed 
those interesting photographs,” he said grimly. 

The poor woman gave an undisguised jump. 

“Photographs?” she quavered. “I — I do not 
remember sending any photographs.” 

“Not of Mademoiselle Virginie Lapierre?” 

“Oh, those!” with a strained giggle. “That 
was just a little joke of mine. Do you not even 
allow photographs of your precious model, Mr. 
Garvie ?” 

What a poor attempt at skittish mischief it 
was that Garvie answered sternly, “I do not al- 
low anyone to misrepresent me to Miss Praed 
without repenting it.” 

Mrs. Mallock must have been in a state of 
arrant cowardice for she ceased to show fight at 
once, and metaphorically crawled on all fours. 


339 


THE FATTED CALF 


goodness, Mr. Garvie. I am sure I never 
meant to misrepresent you to anybody. Why 
should I? Those photos were Britski's, and 
when I got hold of them I just thought it would 
upset some of his fine schemes if I sent them to 
dear Julia. Indeed, that was all. He had treated 
me so meanly, me who had taken the Praeds to 
him and to Marcelle, and who only wanted the 
usual little commission. A poor widow must live 
somehow, Mr. Garvie.” 

‘T am not sure that I see the necessity,” he 
commented. ‘‘And so you and Britski have quar- 
reled over the prey, have you?” 

“He has treated me abominably,” she whim- 
pered, carefully wiping away a genuine tear of 
spite. 

“All the better for you, perhaps, if it comes to 
arrests for fraud. Then you are not in this pretty 
castle in Spain business, eh?” 

She was wailing openly now. 

“Oh, Mr. Garvie! Arrests for fraud! That 
wicked, wicked man ! To think that I, with my 
social position to maintain, should ever have got 
mixed up with him! Indeed, indeed, I knew 
nothing about the affair until I found those 
photographs in his — in his room, and then I 
guessed. You believe me, do you not?” 

Her hand was clutching his arm, and Garvie 
looked down at her in contemptuous pity for so 
invertebrate a thing. 

“Strange to say, I do,” he said reflectively. 

340 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


‘‘Though I do not know that it is much better to 
have tried to bargain Miss Praed off to that 
wretched little Faubourg rat. I know his unsav- 
ory record. Luckily for you, you did not succeed. 
Now, look here. If I let you off scot free, will 
you tell me all you can ?” 

“Indeed, indeed, I will,’’ she gasped. 

Gar vie had bethought himself that the thor- 
oughly scared woman might prove a useful source 
of information to leave behind him in Paris. 

“Well, then, when did you last see Britski ?” he 
asked. 

“Did not you know he had gone?” 

“Gone?” the word epitomized a whole com- 
mination service of wrath and dismay. 

“At least, they say at the shop that he is out 
of town for a day or two ; but there is a disorgan- 
ized air about everything, and Marcelle is invis- 
ible. It is given out at her place that she is ill 
and ordered complete quiet.” 

“You know that she is his wife?” 

A vicious sniff told that Mrs. Mallock was re- 
viving. 

“I know that she is called his wife, but whether 
he ever married her is another matter. If her 
hold on him was secure, she would hardly be so 
madly jealous as she always is. I believe that 
he has gone off with some other woman, and left 
her in the lurch. Madame Comerie is as mys- 
terious as a great fat, white sphinx.” 

Without enquiring into the habits of such a 


341 


THE FATTED CALF 


creature, Garvie meditated. The uncertainty as to 
Britski’s whereabouts hastened his desire to get 
to the Praeds and find what was going on; in 
other words, how Julia was faring. 

He had little time to waste on this woman, yet 
he would make what use of her he could. 

“See here,’" he began, “if I promise to leave 
you out of this row will you undertake to keep a 
sharp lookout here, and wire me at Tremalo if 
there is any move among these precious people?” 

“Oh, I shall be on the watch night and day, I 
assure you. I will do my very best, dear Mr. 
Garvie. And you will tell that sweet Julia, won’t 
you — ” 

“Do not make any mistake,” he interrupted. 
“If I let you off with a warning, it does not mean 
that you are ever going to get within reach of 
Miss Praed again — that is, if I can help it. Now, 
go home, and take your lesson to heart, and try 
not to be a disgrace to your country. Good day !” 

With this admonition, he turned and left her. 
Mrs. Mallock glared after him, a picture of baf- 
fled spite. 

“You beast !” she muttered. “I may give you a 
scratch in the dark yet. But it might have been 
worse. After this, I cannot be too careful. Per- 
haps I had better try London for a change. There 
are sure to be people I know about there at this 
time of year.” 

Garvie made his way out as quickly as possible. 
The knowledge that Britski was not in Paris filled 


342 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


him with vague alarms. He was all impatience 
to be back in Tremalo near Julia. 

He found Thorpe blissfully absorbed in the 
study of a great bunch of pink peonies, that stood 
in an earthen jar. 

“Back already?” he said stretching himself. 
‘*Jove, I have been having a regular picnic. The 
smell of the blessed paint fairly hypnotizes one.” 

Something in the restrained eagerness of Gar- 
vie's face checked him. 

“Well?” he asked. 

“Britski is not in Paris!” 

“Where is he, then?” came the quick demand. 

“Do not know. Wish I did. Anyway, we are 
starting in two hours, and shall reach them to- 
morrow morning. If he is there — ” he paused, 
and neither filled the blank. 

“Come over to Clairons^ to dinner. Your 
shewing up can not do any harm now,” Garvie 
said practically. 


343 


XXXI 

JULIA’S LONE HAND 

D etermined not to acknowledge, 

even to herself, her many misgivings, 
her forlornness, Julia, on Garvie’s 
departure from Tremalo, took refuge 
in perversity. She told herself that as she could 
no longer trust this false friend, it behooved her 
to act in all things against the advice he had 
given her. 

Following this theory she planned an attack on 
her father with the photographs. 

“He must know that the ridiculous creature 
could not be a lady,” she assured herself, forget- 
ing that to Gabriel Praed this hardly presented 
the obstacle it did to her. Gar vie’ s absence 
strained the situation between father and daugh- 
ter in throwing them more together. Mr. Praed, 
while in one way relieved to be free from the ob- 
servation of a man of the world, was bitterly 
disappointed that the hoped for engagement 
seemed to have gone up in smoke. 

Julia’s marriage would have been his best ex- 
cuse for following her example. It had come to 
that now, and he was seriously thinking of ask- 
ing this girl who for him epitomized old-world 
romance, to become his wife. 


344 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


“She’s a delicate, aristocratic young thing to 
take a rough old lumberman like me,” the poor 
man said to himself, wistfully. “But I’ll see that 
there isn’t a pretty thing she doesn’t have if she 
wants it. Old Gabriel Praed’s money’s good 
enough to make a great lady of her.” 

These amorous visions did not save him from 
the discomfort he endured in Julia’s society. 
Sheepishly surly with her, he justified himself 
with the plea that her ill temper had driven Gar- 
vie away. “Just the same nasty, tricky ways as 
she tried on my poor, meek, Mam’selle that day. 
But I’ll shew her that I don’t mean to stand any 
nonsense.” 

For all these valorous resolves, his good heart 
was apt to go back on him, and revert to the old 
habit of affection, if he saw his girl looking the 
least bit less of her buoyant self than usual. 

To avoid this, he took after-dinner refuge in 
the billiard-room, dreary enough to him with the 
noisy French chatter of the bagmen. 

A man with a troubled conscience toward his 
womenfolk scents a scene from afar, and goes 
to much inconvenience to dodge it. But Julia in 
her way, was equally determined. 

A chilly, rainy day had followed the early fine 
weather, and her indoor discomfort was evident, 
and further irritated her father. 

“Why don’t you get Mary Jane to rig up a sit- 
ting-room for you? There’s lots of them studio 
rooms empty,” he said as he stood at her door, 

245 


JULIA’S LONE HAND 

watching her struggles with a fire of damp wood. 
The fierce sea-wind rattled the window and drove 
the smoke out into the room. 

Julia’s red golf coat was the only spot of 
brightness. 

Abandoning the fire to its fate, she stood up 
and confronted him with a look in her face that 
made him consider a retreat to the masculine se- 
curity of the billiard-room. 

Her words did not match the resolution in her 
eyes, for they were cheery and casual. ‘‘Oh that 
is hardly worth while for the short time we are 
to be here now. I suppose we will be off by the 
end of this week? If we don’t hurry we may be 
too late for Venice, and that would be such a 
pity.” 

“I thought you’d soon be tired of it,” was the 
brusque retort. “There’s nothing as I know to 
prevent you’re being off to-morrow if you like.” 

“Oh, I might as well wait for you. I hate 
travelling alone,” she said, resolutely ignoring 
the belligerence of his tone. 

“Well, then, you may just have to wait longer 
than you bargain for. You see, it’s this way;” — 
in his sudden determination he made an unguard- 
ed step forward into the room, and a gust 
slammed to the door behind him. He knew that 
he was delivered into her hands. 

“I’ve been a-thinking of it over, and I’ve made 
up my mind to buy that castle down there, and 
keep it just as it is — ” 


346 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


‘^To buy Rosbraz ! Why, whatever would you 
do with it. We should never want to come and 
live there,’’ she cried in dismay. 

“That’s as may be ; anyway. I’ve made an offer 
to Mam’selle for it, and she has to pass it on to 
her lawyer people in Paris, and I never heard of 
a lawyer yet who was in a hurry about anything. 
I mean to see it out, and as those rooms in Paris 
are, so to say, eating their heads off in the stable, 
I think you’d better go back and look after them.” 

“If I get angry with him now, it is all over 
forever,” was the restraining thought that curbed 
Julia into patience. All the fiercer burnt her 
wrath with those who had taken such an advan- 
tage of his simplicity. 

“I could kill that girl,” she inwardly raged, as 
she tried to think of the most convincing answer. 

“It would be so lonely going back by myself,” 
she said gently. 

He was not to be propitiated. 

“You came by yourself,” he retorted. 

“Yes, but that was coming to you.” 

“Well, stay if you like, but don’t try to set 
yourself against what I want, for I warn you that 
I wont stand it,” he blustered. 

Her hands were toying with the envelope that 
held the photos, and the problem of shewing them 
was troubling her brain. She would venture it, 
though making no accusation. 

“It is only, father, that I am anxious. Such 

347 


JULIA’S LONE HAND 

a strange thing — someone sent me these pictures, 
I do not know what they mean.” 

With a steady hand she held them out, so that 
he could see the two marked ‘‘as chatelaine” and 
“as A. G.'s model.” 

With a growl her father seized them from her, 
and scanned them eagerly, shuffling them in his 
hands like a pack of cards. The veins in his face 
swelled, and Julia saw a look that reminded her 
of a dreadful day in her childhood when he had 
faced alone an angry mob of miners who had 
come to threaten him. 

“Some damn fool has got hold of a picture 
or two of Mam’selle,” he muttered half to him- 
self, then turning on her, “and they’ve thought 
as you were another fool that they could play 
with, up and down like a concertina. But don’t 
you be fool enough to play with me, that’s all. 
I’ll take care of these pictures. They’re no con- 
cern of yours. Look out you don’t make ’em so !” 

With this he turned on his heel and went, slam- 
ming the door behind him. 

A gust shook the window, and sent an answer- 
ing puff of smoke into the room. Julia looked 
from door to hearth and her mood was distinctly 
dangerous. 

Fortunately her active nature sent her forth to 
brave the storm, in struggling with which she 
recovered her powers of endurance. That even- 
ing she wrote the letter asking Sylvia to come to 

348 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


Tremalo, though pride prevented her saying how 
sorely she needed a friend. 

The next day she set resolutely to work to get 
through the time in as cheerful a fashion as pos- 
sible. Taking possession of Marie Jeanne's two- 
wheeled dog-cart and smart dappled pony, she 
drove about the country in solitude, save for the 
presence on the back seat of Michel, the stable- 
boy. 

She thus explored the neighborhood, basking 
for hours on the sands at Raguenez to watch the 
Bay of Biscay breakers roll in, wandering over 
the rocky cliffs at the river’s mouth, venturing 
into the worst by-roads in search of some four- 
teenth century chapel or calvaire, some Druidic 
dolman or menhir that Marie Jeanne had told her 
of. In this fashion she took defeat and flourished 
on it. 

All the same, when in a few days Sylvia’s tele- 
gram came, she shed some tears of sheer relief. 
It was only then that she realized the full extent 
of her recent isolation. 

In her present humour nothing could have so 
softened her as the thought that here was some- 
one who, tired and unhappy, needed rest and com- 
forting, needed the beauty of woods and seas as 
balm to her spirit. 

‘T shall take her for a whole long day by the 
sea. How different she will look after that,” she 
planned with renewed spirits. 

The next afternoon she started betimes on her 


349 


JULIANS LONE HAND 

long drive to Bannalec station. she were to 
arrive first, she would think herself dropped down 
at the very tail end of creation,” she reflected. 

She was waiting on the platform when the train 
deposited Sylvia and her trunk. “Oh, how brown 
and outdoor you do look!” the latter exclaimed 
as they met. 

“And what a poor, bleached indoors creature 
you seem. But we’ll soon change that,” was 
Julia’s retort. 

Through the lovely country, peaceful under 
the level evening sunshine, the friends drove in a 
temporary content that, for the time, veiled their 
more sombre mutual problems. 

“What does your father say to my coming?” 
Sylvia asked presently. 

Julia laughed harshly. 

“To tell you the truth I think he looks on it 
as a re-enforcement of the enemy. Poor father 
you’ll find him so changed. When I see the harm 
that creature has done him it almost makes me 
believe in the tales of witchcraft the people here 
tell. I assure you, it’s not too pleasant a state of 
affairs here. It was a real act of friendship your 
coming. I don’t know what I should have done 
if you hadn’t.” 

“That was what Mr. Garvie said — ” 

“Mr. Garvie?” Julia interrupted, “then you’ve 
seen him?” 

“Oh, yes, we met at the bank, and he asked 
me to drive up to the Bois as he wanted to have 


350 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


a long talk. He was so kind,” she added with a 
little sigh as her thoughts went back to her own 
affairs. 

‘‘Get along, Sargent,” Julia said, waving her 
whip over the pony. Then : 

“And he wanted you to come here?” 

“Why yes, he hardly gave me time to pack my 
trunk, he wanted to get me off so fast. He 
seemed so worried about you, and said he never 
would have left Tremalo, but to try and find 
means in Paris of showing your father how he 
was being cheated.” 

This was said in the most matter of fact 
fashion, and Julia kept her eyes fixed ahead as 
she asked briefly : 

“Did he tell you how horrid I had been to 
him?” 

“He told me that some of these people had tried 
to set you against him, but if he thought you hor- 
rid he’d hardly be in such a hurry to get back 
here as soon as he can, would he?” 

“You’re a dear,” was Julia’s irrelevant com- 
ment. 


351 


XXXII 

RE-ENFORCEMENTS 


ULIA was mistaken as to her father’s 



welcome of Sylvia. True, he had re- 


ceived the news of her coming with 


marked grumpiness, but as they drove 
to the door, in the clear, yellow twilight, he greet- 
ed them with the nearest approach to heartiness 
that Julia had seen for days. 

‘‘Thought you were a better whip than that. 
Miss Julie, not to get here under the hour. Here’s 
Mary Jane trying to save a fresh salmon hot and 
good for you, the which I did my best to tell her 
can’t be done. Salmon’s not going to be kept 
waiting for nobody. Come along in. Miss Syl- 
via, and we’ll try if the good lady hasn’t got some 
fizzy stuff as will put a bit of colour into them 
cheeks of yours.” 

This was surprising enough, but the reason for 
it was revealed two mornings later when Sylvia, 
sitting at the door waiting for Julia to start on a 
ramble, was joined by Mr. Praed. 

She had already noticed a change for the worse 
in manners and looks. The simple heartiness 
that was not without its own rough dignity was 
replaced by variations between a forced jocularity 


352 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


and fits of sullen brooding, which were apt to end 
in outbursts of anger. It was plain to be seen 
that he was a man ashamed of what he was about 
to do, while, all the same, resolved on doing it. 

“Bit of change this from Paris, Miss Sylvia,’’ 
he began, with a comprehensive wave of the hand 
towards the quiet Place. 

“Yes, indeed, and a very welcome change too. 
Big cities are apt to get on one’s nerves in spring- 
time,” Sylvia agreed. 

“Exactly so. And you look as though it 
wasn’t before you needed it — fond of travelling, 
eh ?” and Mr. Praed glanced sharply at her from 
under his beetling brows. 

“I used to enjoy it once,” she answered, with 
the feeling that he was leading up to some pre- 
determined topic. 

“Been to Italy and Venice and all those places, 
I expect?” 

Whether Mr. Praed thought Venice was not 
in Italy, Sylvia did not enquire. 

“I have been a good deal in Florence and Ven- 
ice. It would be lovely there now.” 

“Eh, would it? Not too hot, eh? And I sup- 
pose you speak the language and can find your 
way round those parts easily ?” 

“Can he be going to offer to take me as a lady- 
courier on his honeymoon?” Sylvia marvelled, 
as she answered, “Oh, yes, I speak Italian well 
enough to get along. It is all very easy.” 


353 


RE-ENFORCEMENTS 


Her answers seemed to please Mr. Praed, who 
visibly brightened. 

“Well, then, my dear young lady, see here,’^ he 
said, one arm on the back of the bench. “IVe 
got an idea in my head as I want to talk over. 
What say if you and my girl were to start off 
and take a little tour round them Italian cities 
you mention. Eve been promising Julie that trip, 
but now Eve got things to look after and can’t 
go, and she’s a sort of fretting and ain’t happy 
here.” 

“No, Julia is not happy here,” Sylvia put in 
firmly, in spite of an inward tremour, but even 
this much assertion seemed to irritate her listener. 

“Lord knows why she shouldn’t be,” he 
growled, “but girls is queer. Anyway, she’s 
taken fancies into her head, as perhaps a change 
might get out again. Seems to me that you and 
she might enjoy yourselves together.” A wist- 
fulness came into his voice, as though he were 
remembering the recent time when he would have 
enjoyed himself with them, and Sylvia felt a gen- 
uine pity for the man. “And seeing as money 
aint any object, I don’t see why you shouldn’t 
have a good time, all expenses paid. Perhaps,” 
he added doubtfully, “when Julie comes back, 
she’ll have got over her silly fancies against that 
poor Mam’selle down at the castle. I guess she’s 
told you about it, the way girls tell each other 
things.” 


354 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


He peered at Sylvia as though he were really 
anxious to get at Julia’s point of view. 

With a sudden resolve the girl took her courage 
in both hands, and spoke out desperately: 

“Mr. Praed, you have always been kind to me, 
and I know that you mean to be kind now. Do 
let me try and help you a little bit in return. If 
Julia is unhappy surely you must see that it is 
because she cannot bear to be estranged from you, 
cannot bear to see you imposed upon in your 
goodness of heart — no, please, listen to me for 
just a moment — ” She hurried on as he shewed 
signs of restiveness — “I know Paris better than 
you do. I have had bitter reason to know that 
Britski is an unscrupulous imposter, with his 
ready tools everywhere. He is cheating you 
now. He has filled this chateau with worthless 
stuff—” 

She could get no further. Mr. Praed stood 
before her, trouble and anger struggling in his 
face, as he growled out : 

“Look here, what’s the good of talking like 
that? If you’re trying to prove as that furniture’s 
false, what are you going to make of Mam’selle, 
I’d like to know.” 

Sylvia would not give way before his wrath. 
“Dear Mr. Praed,” she urged with a catching of 
her breath, “I know you won’t like it, but I must 
tell you that she is a girl that Britski sent down 
from Paris. Mr. Garvie knows her — ” 

Here the storm broke. 


355 


RE-ENFORCEMENTS 


“Garvie go to hell! I thought better of you 
than that you’d come making yourself the tool of 
Julia’s jealousies, and that fellow Garvie’s creep- 
ing round to slander honest folks at her bidding. 
Want my money, do they? Well, they needn’t be I 
too sure of getting it. I may have some one to | 
care for me too, as I’ll spend it on. I thought 
better of you, I say. Miss Sylvia. You and Julia ! 
can do what you like, go or stay, but as long as j 
you’re here in this house, I sha’n’t be. I’ll go over 
to the hotel at Concarneau. It won’t take me i 
much longer to get to the castle from there, and ! 
that’s all I care about now. You tell Julia, with j 
the compliments of Gabriel Praed, that he never | 
was known to give in to any one as tried to bluff I 
him, and won’t now. She’ll find she’ll have to 
swallow the dose, sooner or later. Here, where’s 
that Mary Jane? I want my bill!” 

The torrent of his wrath rolled off into the 
house, and his victim stood gasping as if from 
the effects of a shower-bath. 

“Sylvia! Sylvia! Come up here!” sounded a 
low call from above, and looking up, she saw 
Julia’s face peering over the window-ledge, 
framed in dark, disordered hair. 

Lightly she ran up stairs and into her friend’s 
room. Julia stood near the window, her hair 
hanging around her shoulders, a forgotten comb 
grasped in her hand. There were tears on her 
face, and a sob caught her breath as she gasped : 

“Oh, he can’t be really going, can he ?” 

356 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


She had evidently heard all, and Sylvia only 
nodded. 

‘‘Where is he? Oh, I mustn’t let poor father 
go away like that ! I must go and find him,” and 
she flung down the comb and began to twist her 
hair into a heavy knot. 

But her friend laid a restraining grasp on her 
arm. 

“It is no use, just now,” she said. “He would 
only get more angry, and say something you 
could never forget. You heard how he refused 
to listen to me.” 

Julia wrung her hands wildly. 

“Oh, I’ll promise to put up with his ‘Mam’selle,’ 
I’ll promise anything rather than have him quar- 
rel with me! You don’t know all we’ve been to 
each other, ever since mother died when I was a 
little child, the youngest of them all.” 

But Sylvia had her arm around her now, and 
protested : 

“The more he has been to you, the braver you 
must be for him now. If, from cowardice, you 
yield about this wretched girl, you help him to 
wreck the rest of his life. Think what she is, a 
model from the Quarter, a creature of Britski’s. 
You can’t guess what such things mean, but, in 
a way, I know.” 

“Yes, I can. I’ve seen the women in mining 
camps,” Julia answered, half absently. She was 
staring out the open widow with the look of one 
listening. 


357 


RE-ENFORCEMENTS 


“What’s that ?” she said sharply, as a burr and 
whiz sounded from the Place. The warning toot 
of a horn left no doubt, and the two girls rushed 
to the window in time to see Mr. Praed’s back as 
the auto rushed down the Place towards the 
bridge. 

He had been as good as his word, and had gone 
off to Concarneau without further leave-taking. 
Then Julia broke down and cried as she had not 
cried since her school days. The preparation of 
her father’s estrangement had not softened the 
blow. It was home, and family, and all the 
sweet dependencies of childhood that were lost to 
her. But it was her father for whom she grieved 
more than for herself. If he married this girl, 
what would become of him when, before long, she 
revealed herself in her true colours? She dared 
not think of the lonely, shamed old age that lay 
ahead of him. Her brothers, she knew, would 
make less allowance for his folly than she did. 
He would inevitably quarrel with them, and so be 
completely cut off from his own family. 

“Poor father! Poor father!” she sobbed, as 
she lay huddled on the bed, utterly abandoned to 
her grief. 

For a time, Sylvia let her mourn unchecked, 
then as the sobs lessened, she began to talk to her 
and presently coaxed her to come down to the 
hotel garden, a high-walled, untidy, terraced place 
by the river, where they could talk undisturbed. 

Julia languidly let her friend do as she would, 

358 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


and it was not until they were established under 
the willow trees opposite an island where a mill 
droned sleepily to the river’s babbling, that Syl- 
via made her first suggestion. 

‘‘Do you not think it would be a good idea if 
I were to go up to the post-office and send a wire 
to Mr. Garvie telling him what has happened? 
If he has succeeded in finding out anything, he 
should act at once.” 

Her words galvanized Julia into sudden 
energy, though of the stormy kind. 

“You think that I am going to ask Mr. Garvie 
to help me, after the way I treated him ?” she pro- 
tested. “I really believe I would sooner embrace 
a whole armful of ‘Mam’selles’ with their ‘damns’ 
and ‘devils’ — so there.” 

“But if it was I who telegraphed?” Sylvia 
urged. 

“He would know it was the same thing. If 
I am lonely and unhappy, it is just what I deserve. 
Promise me you won’t, Sylvia,” and with the 
words, tears seemed imminent. 

Her friend looked at her with a mixture of 
penitence and mischief. 

“I wonder if you will be very angry,” she be- 
gan, “when you hear that I wrote to Mr. Garvie 
the night I came. I never thought you’d mind.” 

“What did you say ?” came the eager question. 

“Oh, well, I told him about the journey, and 
meeting you, and how you looked — ” she paused, 
but there came no sign of wrath, “and I said I 


359 


RE-ENFORCEMENTS 


thought there should not be any time lost in con- 
verting your father to common sense — and, oh 
yes, I repeated the story you told me about the 
silver. I thought it might help him find out 
something. I hope that did not matter, did it?’^ 

‘‘No, I don’t think it mattered,” Julia said 
quietly, “but all the same, don’t let us send any 
telegram. I am going to think things out, and 
act for myself now.” 

To this Sylvia made no objection, and Julia 
sat silently watching the golden-brown ripples 
against a rock, as though reading from the open 
book of Fate. 

Presently she looked up and spoke out her 
thoughts : 

“I have decided to go and see that girl myself,” 
she began. 

“Oh, Julia!” 

“Wait a moment. I have it all planned out. 
You see, father does not think it is proper to go 
there before half-past ten or so — he told me so. 
Said it was not French manners. Well, if I got 
up early, I could be there by nine o’clock, easy; 
walking by the shore, I mean. I do not want to 
drive and risk meeting him on the road.” 

“But if they won’t let you in!” Sylvia urged 
breathlessly, seizing the first objection that of- 
fered. 

“I’ll get in somehow or other.” 

“But is it safe? These people may be despe- 
rate. You do not know who is in the place.” 

360 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Julia laughed. 

‘T’ll take a revolver. And when Pve got in, 
ril offer this girl a settled income for life, or a 
lump sum down, whichever she likes best — I can 
do it, IVe got the money all right — if she will go 
off and never let father know where she is. She 
can’t really want to marry him, you know. Per- 
haps there is some younger man, an artist, or 
something she’d rather have — ” Here Julia 
blushed finely, and Sylvia gave an amused laugh. 

Recovering herself, the former went on ener- 
getically: ‘Tf it takes all I’ve got, I should far 
rather work for my living than have this hap- 
pen.” 

Here her inveterate buoyancy asserted itself, 
and she added : ‘T think I should go to Dawson 
City, and start a boarding-house. I’d make a 
fortune in no time. What fun it would be.” 

*Tf you really go — to Rosbraz I mean, not to 
the Klondyke — you must take me with you,” 
Sylvia said. 

The scheme seemed wild and dubious, but she 
felt that Julia had a right to try it if she chose. 

Her friend looked doubtful. 

“I’m afraid it might be too long a walk for you. 
I’m used to scrambling about the country, you 
know, and then I’m as strong as a horse.” 

“Oh, I’m a better walker than you think,” Syl- 
via insisted, and Julia yielded, glad at heart not 
to go alone. 


a6i 


XXXIII 

THE SIEGE OF THE CASTLE 

HE May morning dawned over the conn- 
i try as a new, shining gift from Heaven. 
I The first red sun rays scattered the 

^ river mists that veiled the Rosbraz 

walls, and drew long, level lines through the 
chestnut avenues. 

When high enough to reach the courtyard, they 
found no lazily untidy girl lounging on the steps 
over her breakfast. Instead, there was IMere 
Suzanne, her parchment face, haggard under her 
black silk handkerchief, as she tugged at the heavy 
bundles she was dragging down to the landing. 

With a stony stare, Virginie stood watching 
her, as though the work symbolized salvage from 
life's wreck. 

“Here, then," the old woman panted, “lend a 
hand with this stuff. Britski won't thank you 
if, after his orders to bring the silver with us, 
you turn up empty handed." 

At the same hour, Julia and Sylvia had fin- 
ished their early coffee and gone out into the 
dewy, gleaming meadows, where every spring 
blossom seemed to be lifting its head to rejoice in 
existence. 


362 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Julia’s face lacked its usual bright colour, and 
was drawn as though from a troubled night, but 
as they left the houses, she looked round on the 
still beauty and drew a deep breath of relief. 

“It’s a day that reminds one of Pippa Passes/* 
Sylvia said, and then she quoted the lines ending : 

The morning’s dew-pearled, 

God’s in his Heaven, 

All’s right with the world. 

“Oh, don’t!” Julia said with a little shiver. 
“All this glory seems to make wickedness and 
suffering such false notes in creation. I hate to 
think of that wretched girl I am going to see.” 

“Then do not,” her friend put in with a detain- 
ing touch on her arm. “Look at those blue-bells 
instead,” and they loitered a moment in the mead- 
ow-path to gaze down a slope that seemed to have 
caught a quivering line of blue from the sky over- 
head. 

As they went on their way, Sylvia returned to 
the subject. 

“I think that you, like me, are a bit sorry at 
heart for that girl. How can we tell what her 
life has been?” 

But Julia interrupted vigorously. 

“No, indeed, I am not sorry for her. Just 
think of the harm she has done, and may still 
do. If she had caused you as many wretched 
hours as she has me — ” she paused, apparently 
following out her own thoughts. 

Presently she went on in more subdued tones; 

363 


THE SIEGE OF THE CASTLE 


‘Tf I could only be sure of seeing the last of her, 
forever, I believe I should be just as glad that 
the poor wretch did not come to any harm. I 
have so much, and she so little.” 

On they went, up on to the bare hillsides, down 
into green valleys where little fern-fringed brooks 
sang their way to the river. 

Once or twice Julia looked at her watch, but 
forbore to urge Sylvia into haste, remembering 
that her feet were more used to the smoothness 
of town pavements than to these granite foot- 
paths. 

It was later than she had expected though, 
when, rounding the last cove, they saw the mea- 
dows and chestnut avenues of Rosbraz, and be- 
yond them the chateau. 

Sylvia shivered nervously. ‘^How grim it does 
look. Every hobgoblin and wicked giant of my 
childish nightmares is somewhere in there, I am 
certain.” 

Julia laughed. She never quite followed the 
freaks of her friend’s imagination. 

“As long as father has not got there first, I do 
not mind the hobgoblins,” she said. 

They went on in silence under the flickering 
light and shade of the long chestnut leaves danc- 
ing to a southerly breeze, and now there was no 
more talking or laughing. 

“Look!” whispered Julia, with a grasp on the 
other’s arm, and they saw the witchlike figure 

364 


GABRIEL PRAED^S CASTLE 


of Mere Suzanne scuttling down the path like a 
black rabbit, a bundle grasped in her arms. 

‘‘Perhaps that is the fairy godmother,” Sylvia 
jested under her breath. 

“Do not let her see us !” 

They skirted the landward side of the chateau, 
to reach the courtyard. 

“Look!” again came from Julia, and this time 
it was an ordinary enough thing that so excited 
her. Two bicycles leant against the wall by the 
entrance. 

“One is Mr. Garvie’s. He left it in Tremalo. 
I saw it in the hall, yesterday. And I know the 
other too; I hired it from Lorient when he was 
here. Who can have used them ?” 

Her face was all aglow with the undefined 
expectancy which Sylvia put into words. 

“Mr. Garvie must have arrived on the morn- 
ing train after we left, and got here ahead of us. 
He easily could, you know.” 

“But the other?” 

It was Sylvia’s turn for a wide-eyed hope, a 
hope that deepened and brightened into a full 
glory over her face, as they held their breath to 
listen to voices inside. 

“It is Rupert Thorpe,” she murmured to her- 
self, her voice sweet as a half-awakened child’s, 
then turning to Julia. 

“They have come together. They must have 
got proofs against Britski,” she triumphed. 

365 


THE SIEGE OF THE CASTLE 


‘‘Come!'’ was all Julia said. Her eyes had 
answered the rest. 

It was a strange picture that met them as they 
paused in the gateless entrance to the courtyard. 

On the house-steps stood Virginie, facing Gar- 
vie and Thorpe who seemed to have just come 
upon her as she was running out, a small but 
weighty bundle in her arms. She wore the same 
demure mourning dress in which Julia had seen 
her before, but now the demureness did not ex- 
tend to her hair, which swirled around her face 
in all its old, untidy splendour. 

With haggard eyes she glared down at the two 
men. 

It was Thorpe who was speaking and there 
was an almost pitiless ring of exultation in his 
voice as he greeted the girl. 

“So, Virginie, we find you breaking up camp, 
eh? Going back to Paris, perhaps? Will you 
pose for me as a noble Breton lady carrying off 
her silver before the sacking of the castle by free- 
booters ? Heavy, isn’t it ?” 

The girl bleached to a more deadly pallor, as 
she flashed out. ''Canaille! If you two have 
followed those American girls to Tremalo, why 
can’t you leave me in peace? Does Monsieur 
Garvie think that the doll-faced daughter will 
have no money left to give him if I keep the old 
bonhomme under my thumb much longer? Ah, 
he is well there, look you. And the poor girl. 

366 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


The one who smiles and sighs at Britski for her 
orders — ’’ 

Here Thorpe’s voice broke in, clear and trench- 
ant, as a danger-signal, ‘"See here, Virginie. We 
have had about enough of this commination 
service, thank you. Just set down that bit of 
family plate you are clasping to your heart, and 
tell us quietly where you are going, and where 
Britski is picnicing to-day, there’s a good girl.” 

His surface jesting and under grimness evi- 
dently puzzled and alarmed the model, and she 
sent a quick glance of inquiry towards Garvie 
who remained determinedly silent. He had 
promised Thorpe the first innings. 

‘‘Where can he be, save in Paris ? How should 
I know what he does to-day?” she parried, her 
fierceness turning into sullennesa. 

“You know well enough he is not in Paris, 
anyway,” Thorpe retorted, then with a sudden 
flash of insight, ‘‘Jove. I believe we’ve caught 
you in the very act of making off to join him 
on his way to one of those foreign haunts of re- 
spectability, such as Tangiers or Buenos Ayres, 
and that he is waiting round the corner for you 
now. So the little game is up, eh?” 

The two listening girls began to understand 
the meaning of Thorpe’s fluency. He was hold- 
ing her there captive in the hope that if Britski 
were anywhere in the neighbourhood, he might 
suddenly appear in search of her. 

That Virginie realized this, could be seen by 

367 


THE SIEGE OF THE CASTLE 


the desperate glarrces she cast from one side to 
another. The two girls had pressed on until 
they stood in the partial shelter of the round 
pigeon-tower, relic of feudal days. 

Julia caught the wild-cat flash of her strained 
eyes, and was sure she had seen them, though 
she gave no present sign of it. 

don’t know what you are talking about, 
I tell you. The white wine of Nantes is strong, 
and you must have taken it early to be so toque,'* 
she said in attempted scorn. 

Thorpe’s answer shewed a contemptuous pity. 

‘^You had better own up. In a way, Virginie, 
I am sorry for you. You know Gar vie and I 
have always treated you fairly — ” 

‘‘Fairly,” came the shrill cry. “Was there 
ever a scoflf or blague that you failed to sharpen 
on me? And he over there, who is afraid to 
speak one word for himself — ” Again Julia met 
her eyes and knew that the words were flung 
at her — “how does he relish having his Amer- 
ican fiancee know what my name was in the 
Quarter ? ‘Garvie’s Theodora,’ ‘Garvie’s red- 
haired model.’ That’s a bit different from Iseult 
de Rostrenan, eh?” 

At the last wild words, an oath that was half 
a growl of wrath and half a cry of pain, rang 
out from the gateway, causing them all to look 
around and see Mr. Praed standing there listen- 
ing. There was a certain dignity on his set face 
and rigid figure as he stood, intent on the girl 

368 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


to the ignoring of all else. After that first oath 
had been ground out, he made no sign, until 
Virginie pausing, he came slowly forward. 

And now these two seemed only conscious of 
each other, the incongruous two had been so 
strangely brought into contact 

Julia’s first impulse had been to run to her 
father, but Sylvia caught her hand and checked 
her, whispering, ‘‘He will mind it more after- 
wards, if he thinks you heard.” 

Instinctively Thorpe and Garvie fell back, and 
left Mr. Praed standing there alone. 

For a moment there was a weighty silence, and 
then he began in deliberate tones, “Look here, 
Mam’selle, you just say that over again, will you, 
that about your being known in the Quarter as 
Garvie’ s model? I don’t want to make any 
mistake about it, this time.” 

Shrill and clear came the prolonged whistle of 
a steam craft, almost unknown sound in these 
waters. 

Each one listening started gnd stirred in an 
answer to it, as though it were separately a sum- 
mons, a challenge, a defiance. The sullen despair 
in Virginie’s face changed into wild reckless- 
ness. 

“What is that to you, old imbecile?” she 
shrilled. “Ah, I was a charming Mile. Nitouche, 
wasn’t I? Well, you’ve got the chateau and the 
collection, and paid for them, but you haven’t got 
me. Adieu, Papa Praed.” 

3<^9 


THE SIEGE OF THE CASTLE 


An airy wave of her hand, and she had 
slammed the great oak door and thjey heard the 
bolts grinding to. There would be no taking 
such a fortress by storm in a hurry. 

‘Ts there any other door ?” 

It was Thorpe who spoke, and Garvie an- 
swered, ‘‘There may be. I only know of the one 
leading on to the chapel terrace, up there.’’ 

As he spoke he pointed beyond the pigeon- 
house to a tumble-down, ivy-grown wall, terraced 
to the height of the chateau’s first floor, above 
which some old shrubs and plants clustered 
around a tiny grey Gothic chapel. This was the 
garden where the dames of Rosbraz had taken 
the air in troublous days. 

Every eye was fixed on it as the sinuous black 
figure appeared there. She turned and looked 
down at them with a laugh, crying : “I wasn’t a 
circus girl for nothing.” 

With one hand she caught at a branch of the 
old mulberry tree that overhung the landing, 
while her other still grasped the bundle, and 
swung herself down out of sight. Those watch- 
ing caught their breath, though Garvie, who was 
most familiar with the place knew that, save for 
her woman’s clothing it was a simple enough 
feat, as a big boulder rose beneath the tree. 

“The landing! We may catch her there,” 
Thorpe shouted, and had turned to rush down 
when he was checked by an iron grip on his shoul- 
der. 


370 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


“No you won't! You let her go.” Mr. Praed 
growled. 

“But don't you understand? It was some of 
the silver she had in her arms/' he insisted, mad- 
dened to feel his proofs against Britski slipping 
out of reach. But Mr. Praed held firm. 

“I understand, fast enough. It's none of your 
business. The stuff's mine, and I paid for it. 
Let her go” 

Dropping his hold on Thorpe, Mr. Praed 
turned and strode towards the landing, the two 
men following. From their corner by the pigeon- 
house the girls could see it all. 

The tide was brimming high, and a little way 
from the shore lay a steam-launch, spic and span 
with white paint and shining brass work. On 
the deck crouched a dark bundle which repre- 
sented Mere Suzanne, and near her stood Britski 
staring intently towards the landing. One hand, 
Garvie noticed was hidden in his pocket. “He's 
got a revolver,” he said to himself. 

The sound of oars in the water, and they saw 
Virginie, still poising herself after her leap from 
the boulder below the mulberry tree into a dinghy 
which a sailor boy was rowing out toward the 
launch. 

The boat was light and skimmed over the water 
with a flashing from wet oars. In a minute 
or two they saw it pass round to the other 
side of the launch, where Britski ran to meet 
them. Garvie searched with his eyes, the curves 


371 


THE SIEGE OF THE CASTLE 


of the river and the opposite shore for signs of 
life. Yes, there were some of the coastguards 
fishing not far out. They would, he knew, have 
no scruples in raising the hue and cry against 
those whom they thought ‘‘Jew spies.’’ 

He strode up to Mr. Praed and said, “You 
know that Britski, who has cheated and robbed 
you, is there, making off with his booty?” 

“Yes. What of that?” 

“You see those men fishing? They are from 
the coastguard station opposite. I can easily hail 
them, and they might get word to Lorient or 
Concarneau — ” 

“What for?” 

“The launch might be followed or intercepted. 
It cannot be going far.” 

Then Mr. Praed turned on him. 

“When I said ‘let her go/ young man, I meant 
it. Eve been a fool, and I’ve paid for it. That’s 
all about it. There, they’re off,” as the launch, 
already headed down stream, sped out of sight 
round the nearest point. 

He drew a deep breath, as though many illus- 
ions had gone with them. “Now I’m going back 
to the Concarneau hotel. You can come and see 
me there this afternoon, if you like. Guess we’ll 
have some things to settle, anyway. Tell my 
daughter she’ll see me in a day or two.” 

‘7ulie!”— 

For Julia was coming down the bank towards 

372 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


him, the tears wet on her face, where a great 
tenderness shone. 

“Father !” she said with a new timidity. 

She had not looked at Garvie or greeted him, 
though every inch of her was conscious of the re- 
lief of his presence. 

Mr. Praed waved her aside as he passed on. 
“Yes, Julie, iPs all right. Pm just going off for 
a bit by myself. You go and talk to Mr. Garvie, 
He’ll tell you all about it.” 

And so he went to “drink his bitter beer alone.” 


373 


XXXIV 

THE PRIMROSE PATH 

S TANDING on the bank in the simple 
navy blue dress she had worn the day 
she and Garvie parted, her hair hang- 
ing down in a long, thick braid, her 
wet eyes wistfully following her father, the mag- 
nificent Julia looked like the most delightful of 
penitent school-girls. 

“Julia 1 I’ve come back to make friends ! Aren’t 
you going to give me any welcome?” 

Her mouth still drooped at the corners as she 
murmured, “I’m ashamed to. I was so horrid.” 

A tender laugh greeted this, and then the gates 
of Eden swung open for yet another pair entering 
in to the blessed heritage of their youth. 

Meanwhile Thorpe had caught sight of a cer- 
tain slim, grey figure hovering in the shelter of 
the pigeon-house, and forgetting his baffled ven- 
geance, had reached its side, receiving pardon 
for all his weaknesses in the glory that trans- 
figured the delicate, worn face. 

“At last,” was all he could stammer as he held 
the thin hands in his. 

But words came later in plenty, and his tale 
was told to a love that, like the God who created 
it, understood all and forgave all. 


374 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


It was nearly an hour before the two couples 
turned their backs on the deserted chateau and 
started on their homeward way. 

In the after years there were four people who 
remembered that morning walk through the Bre- 
ton woods and meadows as a vision of the prim- 
rose path of joy, a vision to be recalled for com- 
forting on days of disillusionment, in the grim- 
ness of winter city streets. 

With sight of the village house-tops, the af- 
fairs of every-day life began to resume their 
reign, and before they reached the Place, Thorpe 
had even confessed to a fine hunger. 

‘‘Where did you breakfast?” Julia asked. The 
two couples had formed into a group for the bet- 
ter facing of the hotel. 

“Marie Jeanne gave us a glass of beer, and 
some bread and cheese. How you bolted it, Gar- 
vie, and what an age ago it seems.” 

“You see,” Garvie explained, “we were a bit 
nervous, when we heard your father had gone off, 
and we didn’t know where Britski might be. It 
was rather rash, your going to the chateau,” he 
added, with a look that told his pride in her ven- 
ture. 

“So Sylvia said,” Julia laughed, “but I had 
this,” and she shewed a smart little revolver. 

“And Britski had its pair,” Garvie commented. 

Marie Jeanne who always rose to the occasion, 
had ready for them a festive luncheon that would 
not have disgraced a Paris chef. 

375 


THE PRIMROSE PATH 


There were pink shrimps and big red lobsters, 
and she herself had cooked the three dishes which 
have caused her name to be gratefully remem- 
bered in three continents. 

There was a mighty bowl of classic bouillea- 
baise, redolent of garlic and saffron and red pep- 
pers; there were cutlets en papillottes, and last 
came an omelette au rhim borne in by Marie 
Jeanne herself with the blue flames leaping 
around it. At this they drank her health in white 
wine of Nantes, and her brief and apposite reply 
brought a laugh from the men, and a smiling 
blush to the girls’ faces. 

Now and then Gar vie saw Julia’s eyes grow 
pensive as she remembered how dark these hours, 
so bright for her, were to her father, but a low 
word from him brought back the light to her face 
— she could not help being happy. 

‘T suppose I mustn’t come with you,” she said 
wistfully, as Garvie ordered the dog cart for the 
drive to Concarneau. 

It was a great temptation to the newly ac- 
knowledged lover, but he shook his head. 

‘T think it is better to do just as he said. 
There may be a chance of his coming back with 
me,” he said, though he really did not think so. 
‘‘And then, it might not be so easy to discuss you 
in your presence,” he added with a smile. 

“Me?” and then she remembered that it was 
her future that was to be settled by these two 
men. 


376 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


Garvie took with him a bundle of letters and 
telegrams which had been accumulating during 
the last two days. 

Meantime, with a blessed sense of relief from 
unshared cares, Julia slept away the afternoon 
hours like a tired child, while down in the garden 
by the river, Sylvia and Thorpe planned a happy 
future at home in Boston, when Sylvia’s book 
should be brought out, and Thorpe would go in 
for portrait painting. 

They did not yet know of the letter from a 
lawyer, even then on its way across the Atlantic, 
announcing the death, of an old lady cousin of 
Sylvia’s, and a substantial legacy that was to 
make their start in life so much easier. 

It was after dinner when Garvie returned, look- 
ing somewhat thoughtful. 

‘‘Come for a stroll,” he said to Julia, and of 
one accord they turned towards the quay and the 
pine-crowned knoll. 

“There is no doubt that it has been a hard 
blow to him,” Garvie said, as they sat there above 
the river. “But if I’m not mistaken I took him 
his cure in those telegrams.” 

“Why, what were they?” she asked curiously. 

“They told of trouble in mining stock, a slump 
in the market that he should have had his eye on. 
If he had been in touch with things it would 
have been all right, but as it is he may have 
heavy losses. Do not be frightened dearest,” he 
reassured her, “if he does lose somthing, it’s go- 


377 


THE PRIMROSE PATH 


ing to do him good all the same. As soon as he 
took the thing in, he braced right up and said: 
‘Ah, and so they can’t do without the old man 
after all. It’s time he was back there to pull 
them through. Gabriel Praed may have made a 
fool of himself when he got among these for- 
eigners, but we’ll show them he’s not in his 
dotage yet. Next Saturday’s boat for home — 
that’s the ticket for me.’ ” 

“Home!” Julia echoed, without the old note of 
gladness on the word, “then I shall have to — ” 
“No, you are not going,” Garvie interrupted. 
“At least not unless you want a honeymoon 
among your mountains. We can go wherever 
you like. It is settled that we are to be married 
in Paris the day before your father sails. We re- 
turn there at once, but perhaps you and I may 
soon be back here, for your father means to give 
you Rosbraz as a wedding present. How would 
you like to make a country home there? Could 
the chestnut woods and the heaths ever take the 
place of your mountains?” 

“They could, if you were there,” she answered 
softly. “But would you really like it? Could 
you paint there?” 

“No better place in the world for painting. 
You have seen a Breton spring, but wait till you 
see a Breton autumn, when the bracken and the 
chestnut leaves are golden bronze and the heather 
is abloom. I have been feeling that I must get 
away from Paris, and all its studio talk, and 

378 


GABRIEL PRAED’S CASTLE 


work in solitude for awhile — and this solitude! 
You shall see the work I can do when I paint the 
genuine chatelaine of Rosbraz/’ and he pressed 
the hand that lay in his. 

‘‘But father?” Julia asked presently. “Do 
you think he expects me to live here? It seems 
like deserting him,” and she sighed gently. 

“ ‘Tell her not to be worrying about me being 
lonely,’ he said ‘I’ve got my hands full of work 
as just suits me, in straightening out this snarl. 
Guess ril have been up as far as the Klondyke 
before I’m settled down ready to entertain her 
next summer at home.’ I really think he is quite 
happy about you,” Garvie added tenderly, “You 
know he always had a fancy for ‘old man Garvie’s 
son.’ ” 

“That isn’t strange,” Julia asserted with more 
of her old gaiety. 

And so, next day father and daughter met at 
the station, the awkwardness of the meeting les- 
sened by the bustle of their start. 

A little taciturn at first, Mr. Praed was soon 
talking away about his new plans, and Julia saw 
that Garvie was right and that nothing could 
have so well roused him as this summons to fresh 
activities. 

On reaching Paris they found the art world 
greatly stirred over Britski’s disappearance, but 
to Garvie’s relief Mr. Praed’s name never ap- 
peared in connection with it. 

Madame Marcelle became bankrupt and the 


379 


THE PRIMROSE PATH 


Hotel Cleveland changed hands. Mother and 
daughter were recognized a year or so later in a 
South American city, in apparent prosperity. 

Virginie Lapierre, her origin, her connection 
with Britski, remained a mystery. 

THE END. 




380 





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Cfte Critics’ <©i)inionS 

^“Every page is dotted over with bits of vivid word- 
painting, glimpses of unmistakably Japanesque land- 
scape that seems to have been transferred directly from 
some delicate porcelain bowl, or lacquered tray, or silken 
fan.” — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser . 

^“His novel will be remembered as a true history in the 
future, and as a human document. It is an eloquent 
protest against the foreign misconception that no Jap 
would be able to love woman divinely.” 

— Mr. Yoni Noguchi., in The Bookman. 

^"So true is its portrayal of character, and so tender 
and deep the pathos of its chief incident, that to the 
Occidental reader it brings a fresh reminder that human 
nature is the same the world over.” — Outlook. 

(OVEK) 


PUBLISHED BY 

HERBERT B.TURNER&CO. 

170 Summer Street, Boston 



%\)t fslanti of Craiiqutl 
33eUg|)tsi 

J SOUTH SEA IDTL, AND OTHERS 
By CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 

izmOf clothy $1,00 net 

AT ALL BOOKSTORES OR SENT POSTPAID ON RECEIPT OF $ I . I O 


^After a lapse of many years, Charles Warren Stoddard, so celebrated 
for his beautiful “South Sea Idyls,” which have become a classic in 
American Litera tin e, again presents the public with a collection of 
idyls and stories of these summer seas full of his charming word-pic- 
tures and exquisite touches which tell of dream-life in fairyland. Of 
his first collection Ralph Waldo Emerson’s prophecy, “1 do not think 
that one who can write so well will find it easy to lec.ve off,” is true 
as this his second collection is now published. 

To quote from others 

TKIlfllfam S)ean Ibowells 

T[“The lightest, sweetest, wildest, freshest things that 
ever were written about the life of that .sum ner ocean.” 

XafcaMo 'K)earn 

^“The Idyls will always haunt me, and I am sure they 
will live in the hearts of many as everything beautifully 
human must live.” 

IRub^arh TRipIfncj 

Tf“Your book is a very tropic of color and fragrance. 

The man who can write South Sea Idyls can write any- 
thing he cares to put his hand to.” 

TKIlaltTOlbitman 

T[“I have just reread your sweet pages all over, and I 
find them indeed soothing and nourishing after their 
kind, like the atmosphere.” 

Ibenr? TOlabswortb Xongfellow 
^“There is a flavor of the soil about your work I much 
like.” 


PUBLISHED BY 

HERBERT B. TURNER & CO. 

170 Summer Street, Boston 


332 92 






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^ ^ ^ j Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 

Vf* o • ^ Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 

^ V » a ^ • o • # ^ Treatment Date: 

*. .-& .-^^JShV. ^ AUG 1337 




BBKREEPER ; 


PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES. INC. 
1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
(412) 779-2111 


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